Meaning and Mystery of the Rose
by Mercury Gray
Summary: Boromir gets engaged, and finds that love really does exist, and women aren't all as bad as he though they were. Rated for sexual referances and some language. Alternate Universe. Finished.
1. My rose

'He saw her in the garden, as she strayed  
  
Among the flowers of summer with her maid,  
  
And said to him, "O Eginhard, disclose  
  
The meaning and the mystery of the rose";  
  
And trembling he made answer: "In good sooth,  
  
Its mystery is love, its meaning youth!"' –HW Longfellow, Emma and Eginhard, Tales of a wayside inn.  
  
---  
  
"Engaged? Faramir, tell me you are joking." Boromir looked his brother in the eye, an imploring look upon his face.  
  
"Would I love to be, brother, I am, alas, not joking. Our father sends his felicitous tidings with this announcement, and asks...nay, commands, that you come home at earliest convenience, or within the week at latest." Faramir threw the piece of parchment he had been reading on the floor in anger. "Why now! Why, of all times, did you have to get engaged now? The men need you...I need you. I cannot command the garrison alone!" Boromir laid an understanding hand on his brother's shoulder.  
  
"You will do fine...besides, I will be back. I am only going to the city, and I am sure you will be able to reach me with any bad news should that sort of state arise." The older man picked the discarded parchment up off the floor, and skimmed through it. "Funny, he didn't mention the lady's name...rather odd of Father to neglect to tell me something of that sort. Faramir, did you read this entirely?" His brother, standing by the door to their quarters, made a gesture with his hand as though brushing away a fly.  
  
"No, just...most of it." Boromir clapped his brother on the shoulder.  
  
"Well, then, you obviously missed the line in the post script...'Oh, and bring your brother home, too.' Don't look so mortified, I think if you were getting engaged too he would have told you right off."  
  
---  
  
"Engaged? To who? I must know, Rhoswen. Who is he?" The bright eyed, curly haired girl begged her friend for coveted news from the letter in her hand.  
  
The girls were sitting in the solar of the castle of Anfalas, golden sunlight from the April sky streaming in, lighting the pale streaks in the lady-in-waiting's hair, and touching the raven curls of the mistress with silver.  
  
"I don't yet know, Maire. But we are going to Minas Tirith to see my father, and my fiancé. We will celebrate the engagement in the city within the week." Rhoswen looked dejectedly up at her friend.  
  
"Why so glum? This is the perfect age to get married. You are young, you are coming into the prime of your life, and you are beautiful, if I do say so myself. No man could not want you." The older girl smiled.  
  
"But what if he's too old? I don't want to marry..." Rhoswen was at a loss for names.  
  
"Denethor?" Maire cheekily put in. Rhoswen's jaw dropped in disgust.  
  
"Yes! But I know 'tis not him...he is too heartbroken for his wife, and he has two grown sons already. His heirs have been provided by a womb other than mine, and for that I am grateful. He is a ruthless man, and his sons are, if anything, worse."  
  
"Have you ever met them?" Maire looked at her companion, who was on the verge of crying.  
  
"The elder, Boromir, once...but I did not care for him then. He was haughty and overly proud."  
  
"And the younger?" Maire prompted her mistress.  
  
"I care not for men who are easily seduced by books and paper shuffling."  
  
"But what of Owen...the young man who works in the library? You told me you thought him handsome."  
  
"I thought you said you liked him. So, I passed on." Rhoswen's face was set in a line, not wanting to reveal any hidden, deep seated and forbidden emotion to a member of the opposite sex below her station.  
  
"Good heavens, NO! I care not for him either. Now, from what I hear of Rohan, I would want my husband to be of the Rohirrim. Maybe you will see someone in the White City who will take your fancy..."  
  
---  
  
The two brothers rode into the immense gates of Minas Tirith, the White City welcoming them home with open gates. Up and up, to the seventh, and highest level of the city they rode, handing their horses off to the stablemen waiting at the doors to the King's halls.  
  
The immense hall of Kings was quiet, the soles of the pair's riding boots echoing on the marble floor. At the end of the black and white hall, a stooped figure in black furs stood to greet them. Both men bowed.  
  
"Father." Boromir kissed his father's signet ring as a sign of respect. The Steward raised his son's golden head back to eye level, even though the lesser was taller than his sire.  
  
"Boromir. It is good to see you in these halls once more."  
  
"It is good to be home on such a...meritorious...occasion." Denethor laughed at the falseness in his heir's voice.  
  
"Do not look so sad, son of mine. Your fiancé is not ugly. From what I have heard from her father, she is quite the rose. And young. She will bear many sons."  
  
"And how young is 'young', father?" Faramir immediately doubted the wisdom of his comment, because Denethor now noticed his younger son, and some expression akin to a frowning sneer morphed from his beaming smile. Boromir, sensing a lash of displeasure from the Steward at seeing his younger son's face, interrupted quickly.  
  
"You mentioned I should bring Faramir. I only thought it appropriate to have my brother here when I am engaged. He is a good council to me, father."  
  
"And nothing more than a council. You two may go. I expect to see you both at the banquet tonight. You will meet your bride to be then." The two men bowed, and left off a side corridor.  
  
"Why did you interrupt?" Boromir's voice was strained at his brother's idiocy.  
  
"I only wanted to know...with your chances, she's probably fourteen, and a ridiculous girl"-he heavily emphasized this point-"with no knowledge of life, and an infatuation with some stable boy, able to make every cracked plate into a calamity."  
  
"Nonsense, brother, I think our father would be a bit more wise in his decision for my bride. He knows what irks me. And childish women are one point very high on that list." Faramir muffled a chuckle as he opened the doors to their rooms.  
  
The apartments of the sons of Denethor were clearly soldier's rooms, furnished in a minimalist fashion, plain and simple. Boromir unstopped the crystal bottle of red wine on the desk by the window, and sat down in a chair to enjoy it. Faramir looked at his brother, glass in hand, and shook his head. It was not a good habit to sit down with a glass of liquor when one had problems, because chances are one glass will lead to three more and a bar fight.  
  
"So, what else is on this 'list of irks' then, brother?" Faramir sat down, rather roughly, causing a small dust storm to erupt from the cushion on his chair.  
  
"Servants who don't clean in here as often as they should. Father knew we were coming today, he could have at least had someone dust." Boromir ran a gloved hand along the arm of his chair and frowned at the gray streak.  
  
"Anything else, brother of mine?"  
  
"As I said...small children no relation to me...servants who shirk from their work...women who do not know their place...a rather long list I would like not to recall at the moment, Faramir." The younger inclined his head in comprehension.  
  
"Well then, if it please milord, I am going for a walk. If milord wishes to abandon his claret before he becomes drunk, he is welcome to join me." Faramir flashed a smile, and abandoned his traveling cloak on a hook by the door. Boromir looked at his half empty glass as if only just realizing what he had done, set it hastily on the table, and rushed out the door to join his brother.  
  
---  
  
The streets of Minas Tirith were crowded today, and having left their horses at the gates to be stabled in her father's name, Rhoswen and Maire wound their way through the streets of the Tower of Guard in a bit of confusion.  
  
Upon arriving in the City, they were supposed to be greeted by a small group of soldiers sent by her father, Lord Golasgil. But there were no soldiers in the ivory courtyard in the golden brown trident and battle- ax of Anfalas, just Tower Guards, resplendent in the ironwork of the Tower.  
  
But, when searching for royalty, there is only one way to go in Minas Tirith, and that way is up. So were the circumstances that found a princess of Langstrand and her servant walking through a strange city, searching for someone who could direct them to the seventh level. In their rough traveling clothes, no one would mistake them for nobility. But that could be a bad thing.  
  
---  
  
Boromir and Faramir were enjoying their stroll, taking in the familiar sights and sounds of a busy city. Hawkers everywhere cried their wares, wafting the smells of fresh baked bread, chickens and other meats sizzling in pungent sauces, and the occasional tang of oranges from the southern regions  
  
"It is a welcome change from the silence of Osgiliath, that is for certain," remarked Boromir, a smile on his face as he gave a passing eye to a street juggler in bright red silk juggle apples far above his head in circles. "Give me the hustle and bustle of the city any day." Faramir stopped, his face a mix of emotions, as if confused by what he saw.  
  
"What is it? What-"Faramir pointed to a side street. There was a small group of men in the uniform of the Tower Guard surrounding two women. Ordinarily, Boromir would not have taken that for anything strange, but somehow, there was an oddity about the cluster. The two men strained to hear the conversation.  
  
"And what business do you have with the Lord Denethor, love?" The young woman, who was obviously the younger of the two, cringed as the guardsman put his face in hers. It was obvious from the start this woman was not of the common blood, or she would not have shrunk away. This woman wanted to protect her virtue and, if left to her own devices, would probably fail miserably.  
  
"We are guests of his, and have urgent business in his household. My father awaits me there. If you would let us pass-"But the threesome were loath to let their quarry go. Boromir had seen enough. He strode through the crowd, thankful for the six feet of height heaven had blessed him with.  
  
"Milady? Your father is waiting...gentlemen." His curt tone told them all to keep their mouths shut, or there would be hell to pay. Offering an arm to the raven-haired young woman, she took it, a questioning light in her eyes.  
  
"You were looking for the Lord Denethor's house?"  
  
"Yes, sir. Would you be so kind as to direct us there?" Faramir smiled as his brother escorted the lady and her maid back the way they had come. Shaking his head, he followed them back to the stairs to the seventh level.  
  
Boromir left them at the gates to the top of the Tower of Guard.  
  
"I will leave you here."  
  
"Thank you, sir. I do not know what I might have done if you had not come to my aid." The young woman appeared flustered; as if this was the first time someone had shown her the common courtesy of escort. She was at a loss for words.  
  
'Think nothing of it."  
  
"You wear the white tree yourself. I imagine you must be a captain?" Boromir held back a snort. The captain-heir of Gondor was the full title, but he wasn't about to let her know that. It threw women off, to know that the heir to Gondor's rule was paying them heed.  
  
"Yes, madam, and a very busy one. If you ladies will excuse me, I have urgent business to attend to in the city...oh, and milady. A caution, if you will. A maid such as yourself does not go about the city un-chaperoned...the men of the guard can be uncouth." The woman nodded, and made her way up the steps. Boromir turned to see his brother, a critical look on his face.  
  
"You should not have done that." Faramir looked at his brother as they hurried through a back passage in the kitchens.  
  
"All I did was be a gentleman. Is there something wrong with that?"  
  
"You fancy her...I see it in your smile. You are engaged, Boromir, or as good as. It will not bode well to go gallivanting off with some lass you just met."  
  
"Who said I was going 'gallivanting' as you say it?"  
  
"The mischievous sparkle in your eyes tells all." Faramir frowned as his brother let loose a loud peal of laughter.  
  
---  
  
"Milord." Rhoswen curtsied to the steward. "I had come on business with my father, the Lord Golasgil."  
  
"Ahh, you are his daughter, then? Rhoswen? Your father is waiting for you. Emon will take you to him." The graying man watched as the young woman followed the black liveried servant.  
  
A rose indeed...this child was a white rose, but not unlike to the Raven he had sired.  
  
---  
  
"Rhoswen! I am sorry for not sending anyone...we had a bit of a problem in here." The elderly lord was sitting in a chair, resplendent in golden embroidered robes of azure. The young woman curtsied, and sat in front of her father.  
  
"I think it only fair that I tell you the name of your husband to be now." Golasgil took his daughter's slender white hands in his own calloused and wrinkled ones.  
  
---  
  
"Lord Boromir!?" Maire nearly shouted as Rhoswen cried unceasingly on her bed. "He is nearly twice your age!"  
  
"He's forty one." Rhoswen lamented through her tears. Maire laid a hand around her sodden friend and offered her a handkerchief.  
  
"There, there, Rose...it can't be that bad...you will be a queen..."  
  
"A miserable queen." Rhoswen wailed, blowing her nose with a sniffle. Maire wiped her friend's face, and looked the raven-haired woman straight in the eye.  
  
"Lord Boromir has all of his teeth, is not balding, quite good looking, and a just and respected man. 4 very good reasons why you should not be crying like this." Rhoswen sniffled.  
  
"When we were out on the street today, the man that saved us..." there was pregnant pause in which Rhoswen seemed not to know what to say "...and I didn't find out his name!" The hysterical girl collapsed into her friend's arms again.  
  
"There, there, Rhoswen...it will be all right." The elder looked at the crying mass imbedded in her soaked bodice. "Besides," the older woman whispered into Rhoswen's hair, "I have it on good authority he doesn't carry on with kitchen maids. There's reason five."  
  
---  
  
Boromir looked out over the sea of courtiers, searching for his brother's face.  
  
"Looking for me?" The tawny framed face of his younger brother peeped over his shoulder, causing the tall man to start.  
  
"You seem exceptionally jovial today...have you been in the wine cellar lately?" Faramir laughed.  
  
"No... when do I ever go in the wine cellars? I am in high spirits because I am watching you suffer. I have never seen you this nervous...Boromir, esteemed captain of Gondor, who can have an arrow whistle past his ear and not bat an eyelash, is paling under the stern glare of marriage." Ignoring his brother, Boromir checked his collar in the mirror for what seemed like the two hundredth time.  
  
"Do I look well?" Faramir tweaked his brother's collar, and knotted one of the ties on this tunic.  
  
"Aside from the fact that you're about as pale as the marble on the floor, you look-dare I say it-positively handsome." The younger man paused to tug the embroidered collar of Boromir's tunic into place, and running his fingers through his brother's hair in a last minute attempt to fix the somewhat unruly locks. He was standing back to view his handiwork when Denethor came to find his sons. Their father was wearing an ermine edged black mantle, with a heavy looking golden necklace around his neck.  
  
"Ah, Boromir, you look wonderful. And Faramir- passable. Boromir, I would like you to wear this." A servant brought over a mahogany stained box. Denethor opened it, and took a large, ornamental chain, which he placed around Boromir's neck. The latter examined the pendant, a large star with crystal points on a black enamel field.  
  
"Wear it with pride. It is ...dear ...to this family. Are you ready?" The two men nodded.  
  
---  
  
Rhoswen sat in her highly carved chair, the burgundy gown sitting high on her bosom, a pendant of a single ivy leaf heavily resting on the lacings of her gown. Next to her, the father squeezed her cold hand affectionately.  
  
She stopped seeing anything as the people in the hall rose for the steward and his sons, her staring vacant, fixed on a shield in the back of the hall. Her mind was elsewhere, determined not to see the man she would have to spend the rest of her life with. With a blank tone, she raised her glass in toast, the words not registering in her mind. And with a heavy heart, she sat back down.  
  
She hardly tasted the food, didn't hear the conversations around her, and couldn't see the friends around the hall waving at her. She took a sip of the wine, tasted the food-she had lost what little appetite she had. The strains of music reached her ears-a call back to reality she did not heed.  
  
Before she could remember what was happening, the dinner was over, and her dining companions were getting up from their chairs, and going down to the floor to dance. Her father was speaking to her, a scared tone in his voice, floating into her ears.  
  
"Rhoswen? Rhoswen!"  
  
"Yes, father?" She turned to see a servant in the livery of the Tower standing next to her father.  
  
"A message for you." Lord Golasgil pointed to the servant, beckoning him to begin.  
  
"My Lord asks if the Lady Rhoswen has had a pleasant evening, and wishes to speak to you before the evening is out, madam. He waits on the balcony, just there." The servant pointed to the white curtains, blowing in the evening breeze. The shadow of a tall man was just visible beyond the drapery. Rhoswen picked up her skirts, allowing the servant to draw her chair out. Maire followed, a proper lady in waiting.  
  
"Who is it?"  
  
"It looks like the captain from this morning. Come, we shall meet him." The young woman's pace quickened, anxious to see her rescuer again. When they reached the balcony, the man had his back to them both. Maire let out a bit of a giggle.  
  
"What is it?" Maire swallowed.  
  
"Rhoswen, I do not know how I could have not recognized him; that be the Lord Boromir." The girl let out a half a scream, and fainted.  
  
---  
  
When she woke up, Maire was fanning her face, and Boromir –was it really he? He seemed quite different-was kneeling next to her, a strange look on his face.  
  
"Rhoswen? Are you quite all right?" Rhoswen ignored Maire's plea and continued to stare, besotted, into Boromir's blue eyes. Ah me, how those eyes are like to the sea, she thought hopelessly, for it seems I drown in them.  
  
"The shock of seeing you, milord...I apologize for the scare." The large man smiled.  
  
"'Tis nothing." Her father ran up, robes flapping like some obscene bird.  
  
"Rhoswen? Be you in good health?"  
  
"Yes, father, I am fine. It was the shock. I met Lord Boromir earlier without knowing it was him." Denethor, sensing trouble, had come over, a vexed look upon his face.  
  
"Boromir, I demand explication! What is going on here?"  
  
"My bride to be fainted, father. She mistook me for someone else this morning at a chance meeting in the city, and when told I was her fiancé, collapsed from the surprise." Boromir shook off the occurrence as if it happened everyday, and Rhoswen marveled at his composure  
  
"Milady? Be you well?" The older man turned to his daughter in law to be, a look of concern written in the wrinkles.  
  
"My lord Denethor. I thank you for your worry. I am well."  
  
"Good. It is almost time for the toast." Denethor made his way back up to the head of the hall.  
  
"If my lady will permit me?" Boromir offered Rhoswen his arm, and she took it, apprehension in her smile. With a wave of the steward's hand, the master of the hall rang in the toast on his bell. Denethor waited for the hall to silence before beginning his speech.  
  
"Lords, ladies, gentlemen of the court, and honored guests, tonight is a special night. Boromir, the Captain Heir of Gondor, the son of your Steward, asks for the hand of Rhoswen, Lady of Anfalas, and she grants it full willing. So be it that they be troth plighted before you all." Boromir made his way around his father's chair, and took Rhoswen's trembling hand, and kissed it. Then, so that the whole hall could see, he raised their intertwined hands.  
  
"A toast!" cried Faramir, rising from his seat. The hall's cheering quieted.  
  
"To my brother's marriage. May it be accompanied by a long and fruitful rule." He looked at his brother, and smiled, raising his glass.  
  
"To Marriage!" the hall raised their glasses in tribute, and drank them dry to the life and rule of the Captain Heir of Gondor.  
  
---  
  
As the hall went back to conversations and dancing, Rhoswen bid her father good night. But as she was leaving the hall, Boromir caught her sleeve.  
  
"A goodnight kiss, milady?" Rhoswen blushed, her eyes downcast.  
  
"If it pleases milord." She looked up, just in time for him to catch her chin and lightly brush her lips. Even if he is older, thought Rhoswen, his kisses are something to be desired.  
  
"Would you care for a stroll? The gardens at this hour are beautiful in the moonlight." Boromir peered down into her eyes, his blue ones piercing and compassionate.  
  
"Perhaps tomorrow morning. Milady needs her rest." Maire pulled the love struck Rhoswen away, the memory of the kiss still floating on her lips.  
  
---  
  
Faramir watched his brother kiss the younger woman on the cheek, and smiled as her lady in waiting pulled her away. Ever the charmer, thought Faramir. He strode over to his brother, who was still standing at the door, watching Rhoswen go.  
  
"I give you 9 on the kiss, and a 7 on your manners. In a scale of one to ten." Boromir looked at his brother with a querying look.  
  
"What are you on about?"  
  
"You didn't offer to escort her back to her room." Faramir shrugged. Boromir shook his head.  
  
"You are odd, brother."  
  
"I am not the one in love, brother. So it is you who may be construed as odd. Let us say our good nights, lest some other maid catch your eye."  
  
---  
  
"So you admit that you find him charming?" Maire was trying to weasel an answer out of her smitten mistress. The young woman gazed off into space as her lady in waiting unlaced her from her gown.  
  
"Perfectly charming. And handsome..."  
  
"You've said that twice...what about his kissing?" Maire put away the dress, and began to brush Rhoswen's long hair.  
  
"Terribly romantic. Like a soft breeze on a summer's day..." Rhoswen unclasped her necklace, laying it in its case. She pulled the coverlets around her chin, closing her eyes and smiling. Maire extinguished the candles. In the darkness, the companion could just hear a soft sigh.  
  
---  
  
"Well, You've seen her, and you've kissed her, and you've seen how she adores you...What think you of marriage now?" Faramir leaned against the door to Boromir's rooms, where the elder was readying for bed.  
  
"I admit that she is beautiful, and I could ask fro nothing more in a wife...But Father has robbed the cradle of a child! I do not relish our wedding night."  
  
"Perhaps, brother, you will find she is not as childish as she seems. Spend but a little time with her-perhaps her age and yours will not become an issue."  
  
"One can only hope. I do not wish to break so delicate a flower so early that none else may enjoy it's charms." Boromir stripped off his shirt and shut the door between their rooms, climbing into bed as he blew the candle at his bedside out.  
  
Rose indeed...but one that was only now just coming into bloom.  
  
---  
  
It was well past his normal hour of rising (dawn), and Boromir could not cram into himself another ounce of sleep. So, throwing on his clothes, he decided to go for a walk in the citadel gardens.  
  
You would think that, being a citadel and all, Minas Tirith wouldn't have any gardens. But these were very well kept, providing a quiet and peaceful sanctuary for the steward or one of his house to come and think. True, they were not large, but large enough to take a sizable amount of time to walk through, with benches and fountains to sit by and admire. But it was one thing that seemed out of place this morning-the sound of a human voice singing amidst the bird's chatter. Intrigued and entranced by the sound, Boromir strained his ears to find out from which way it came. Picking a path, he literally sprinted through the paved way to find the owner of the remarkable voice.  
  
"The winter it is passed And the summer's come at last And the small birds They sing in every tree..." The voice started her singing anew, the plucking of a harp accompanying her music. Boromir increased his pace.  
  
"Their little hearts are glad But mine is very sad Since my true love is Far away from me.  
  
The rose upon the briar By the water running clear Gives joy to the linnet and the bee Their little hearts are blessed But mine is not at rest While my true love is absent from me  
  
I'll wear a cap of black With a frill around my neck Gold rings on my fingers I will wear It's this I undertake For my true lover's sake He resides at The Curragh of Kildaire  
  
A livery I'll wear And I'll comb down my hair And in velvet so green I will appear And straight I will repair, To the Curragh of Kildaire For it's there I'll find tidings of my dear  
  
My love is like the sun That ne'er laments as one And always brews constant and true But his is like the moon That wanders up and down And every month is new..." Boromir was so close to the singer, he could smell her perfume, a light, breezy scent that put him in mind of seabirds and sand. Could it be his cousins had come in from Dol Amroth? No, he told himself, I would have seen them at the banquet last night. Who else do I know who lives by the sea? The answer hit him like a rock when he saw the singer, her black tresses hanging loose as her fingers gently plucked strings, her voice as beautiful as the sea itself, flowing free.  
  
"All you who that are in love And cannot it remove I pity the pains you endure For experience lets me know That your hearts are full of woe And the woe that no mortal can cure A woe that no mortal can cure..." With a final flourish, she finished her song.  
  
"I didn't know you played a harp." Boromir said, breaking the silence that hung on the garden like dew on a leaf. Rhoswen looked up from the harp case with a start, handing the instrument off to her lady in waiting, who took it with a knowing smile and bowed away.  
  
"I did not know you were here...shall we walk?" Boromir smiled.  
  
"I do remember saying something about a walk last night...the gardens are just as beautiful in the morning light."  
  
"As I myself have noticed. Do you come here often?"  
  
"With the promise of seeing your beautiful visage in the dawn's face, perhaps I shall."  
  
Rhoswen giggled uneasily, her eyes focused on counting cobblestones. Boromir stopped, and raised her face to look him straight in the eyes, which were far up, considering she was nearly a foot shy of his immense height.  
  
"You need not hide your face, Rhoswen. Do you fear me?" the young woman swallowed, obviously trying not to cry, and turned her head.  
  
"Rhoswen, look at me! What was it I did to you that you recall and I do not?" the young woman turned away, bordering dangerously close to tears.  
  
"You do me no justice...do you not remember me?"  
  
"Nay, dear woman, I can say I do not."  
  
"At your thirtieth birthday, I was in the city as well, and loudly declaimed, when introduced to you, that one day I would wed a man as like you, realized what had been said, and ran from the hall crying tears of shame. I was nine...do you not remember?" the weeping woman had sat down, while a confused captain stood, racking his memory for such an event.  
  
"I can safe say I do not recall such an episode, though it does you justice, madam, that I said nothing, rather than humiliate you more. My tongue, on occasion, can be quite sharp. Comes from being a soldier." He sat down next to Rhoswen, and taking her sleeve, wiped her tear-streaked face with it.  
  
"I must protest. This gown looks much better when it is not sodden with unnecessary tears." The young woman chanced a smile. The older man lifted her up off the bench, and set her back on the path.  
  
"Now, if milady wishes, we may continue our walk?" He offered an arm, and she unwillingly took it, with a sniffle. Several minutes later, in a constraining silence, she said, in a small voice,  
  
"You must think me ridiculous." Boromir stopped.  
  
"Nay, only caught up in the fact that you believe I will make everything larger than it should be because I am older." He thought about this for a moment. "Which is not true."  
  
"How comes it, then, that the captain heir of Gondor is not already married?"  
  
"I...do not know. I have never found a woman in whose company I can stay for more than is polite enough to get away with. I am always away, in Osgiliath, and it is not easy to raise a family over a field." The taller man walked to look out over the city; it's habitants going about their business without any thought to the nobles above. "Besides, I would not trade the years I have spent with my brother and my men for a wife and children, if that is what you mean."  
  
"I would do you no honor, milord."  
  
"How so, Rhoswen?" Boromir already loved rolling the syllables over his tongue, loving the sound of her name. Oh, to take her in his arms, just once...he shook the romantically spinning thoughts back out as she spoke. Why must this woman break the Rammas Echor he had so carefully constructed around his heart?  
  
"You should have a woman who knows her place within the home, who will be able to raise your children, and wait for you when you are away...I could never stand being without my husband for forever."  
  
"Then that is all the better to appreciate me when I return." The girl turned to walk away.  
  
"This body of mine is slight, and delicate. I know the limits of childbirth."  
  
"I would rather you be slight and delicate than...stout. I can pick you up now." He did so, a warm feeling in his fingers as they touched her waist. Boromir spun her around once and set her back down. The young woman was still trying to think of a convincing argument to get him to hate her, but it was in vain. Boromir grasped her shoulders, forcing her to look up into his blue eyes.  
  
"Do you fear me, Rhoswen? Is that why you show me all your faults? Fear of me?"  
  
Rhoswen cast down her eyes again.  
  
"Yes." Her voice was shy and small. "Why would you want me?"  
  
"Because you are small, and slight, and you adore me, but are loath to show it. And I love you. I have loved you from the moment I saw you in the alley two days ago, and you have only increased my love ten fold! Gods in heaven help me, but I do! The very sound of your name brings a sunrise to my minds eye! So again, I beg you, why do you fear me?"  
  
"Because you are a giant, and I am a sprite. Because you marry because you have need of an heir, and I marry because my father finds it well that I marry above my lower station." She stumbled over the words, as if a waterfall full of dread just exploded from behind it's carefully built dam. "Because I fear I will lose you, and I do not want my heart broken. There...I've said it." She finished, now crying again. The captain held her close, rocking her back and forth in what he hoped would be a calming manner.  
  
"You need not fear for me, or fear me. And that is why I love you. You care so much for others that you never think of yourself. And that is why I want to care for you. You, my delicate rose." Rhoswen stopped crying and looked up from Boromir's redingote to his face.  
  
"Your rose?" The larger man smiled, kissing her hair.  
  
"My rose."  
  
---  
  
I do not own the song 'Curragh of Kildaire', and I don't own Boromir or any other recognizable character either, even if they do seem out of character. In your review-which I know you will write because you are caring people who want to help me- it would be most kind of you to tell me what you think of Rhoswen, as I am not quite grounded on Mary Sues and I want to know if she is one. 


	2. Fairer still the rose in spring

Disclaimer-I doesn't own it, though precious, I wish I did. I shall go and cry now-NOT!  
  
'It was a pretty picture, full of grace,--  
  
The slender form, the delicate, thin face;  
  
The swaying motion, as she hurried by;  
  
The shining feet, the laughter in her eye,  
  
That o'er her face in ripples gleamed and glanced' -*-*- Boromir stood on the tailor's stool, pins poking his arms and a frown on his face. He surveyed himself critically in the mirror, frowning more.  
  
"Having fun, are we?" Faramir peeked around the door, coming in to show off his snow-white doublet, the pearls flashing in the light from the window. Boromir huffed. He turned, rather stiffly, to face his brother, a small shower of pins in his wake.  
  
"It is not amusing, brother, to poke fun at me while I am thus attired in pins, Faramir, else I would wound you grievously where you stand. And yes, I am having masses of fun." At the dangerously sarcastic tone, the younger man backed up.  
  
"Well then, I shall be sure to make certain you are being fitted for your wedding garments the next time I decide to 'poke fun' at you." He chuckled. "You look rather handsome, though." Boromir smiled as well.  
  
"And I should like to say that you, too, brother, look rather handsome. Of this I am quite glad, since the best man at my wedding should be in proper fashion." He grimaced; a pin had jabbed his midriff. "However, I would like it to be noted that proper fashion can be-somewhat painful." Faramir chortled.  
  
"Brother, you look fine, and I assure, the pain is well worth the gain." He danced around the pin-constrained Boromir. "And I tell you, Brother, that your bride-to-be's dress is coming along very nicely. Although..." he whispered his cheeky remark about getting the dress off in his brother's ear, to which the older man fumed, and rounded his brother upside the head, getting poked several times in the process.  
  
"Back to the tailor's with you, Faramir, and I wish the same discomfort to you on your wedding night, which I await with great joy and greater mirth." The younger backed out of the room, still laughing at his brother's crimson face.  
  
-*-*-  
  
Maire looked out the door as the still guffawing Faramir went past, a disapproving frown on her face.  
  
"Someone's quite the merry-andrew today. Rhos, please hold still. This dress does not pin itself together, and I am loath to prick you with a pin."  
  
"I am sorry, Maire, but I cannot be still. I have too much on my mind. Getting married is a big event."  
  
"And a royal marriage even bigger. And I assure you, Boromir looks positively dashing. The ladies of the court will envy you greatly." The younger sighed.  
  
"Already they envy me, those his Lordship's age, and those my senior, those he could have married and those who already have husbands, they all scorn me, look at me like dirt, and grudge me even the slightest of kindnesses." Rhoswen looked at her maid, still anxious.  
  
"Is he really handsome?" Maire chuckled.  
  
"You know that answer well enough yourself. Yes, Rhos, he's the very picture of a god. The ladies' envy is not misplaced." The lady in waiting got off her knees, standing back to survey her handiwork, straightening the shoulders and tugging the bottom down a bit.  
  
"And you, milady, look every inch the goddess. Let me get you out of the dress, and you may go sit and play your harp, if that is what you desire." The servant began the tedious task of unpinning the dress, the flighty young woman shaking with anticipation. Sliding the weighty white cloth over her head, Maire handed her mistress her green day gown, which the latter slid over her head with a pleased sigh.  
  
"It is a welcome change to be out of the heavy damask, Maire. How long is the ceremony to be?" The serving woman slid the frock over a wooden dummy, and sat with a needle, carefully making stitches as Rhoswen laced up her gown. A sudden rap on the door caused Rhoswen to half drop the unlaced dress, and Maire to prick herself, turning on her stool to see Boromir rather sheepishly knocking on the door. Rhoswen felt a flush rise in her cheeks at being half-dressed in front of her future husband. Maire, sensing Rhoswen's discomfort, barked-  
  
"Milord! If I may be so bold as to ask you to avert your eyes until the lady is properly attired?" Boromir raised his eyebrows, and, at seeing the blushing Rhoswen, standing in the middle of the room with her dress half on, quickly turned around to face the tapestry in the hallway. Rhoswen quickly knotted the stays on her dress, and smothered the gathering wrinkles in the skirt.  
  
"You may turn around now." Maire, looking from the steward's son to her mistress, smiled slightly and bowed out of the room, suppressing a snicker.  
  
"I...had come to ask you to take a walk with me. I, too, have been standing on a stool for the better part of the morning, and the fresh air would be a welcome change. Your company...would be most obliging in making my walk a bit more favorable." Rhoswen blushed.  
  
"I would be honored, milord." She stepped off the taboret upon which she had been standing, taking his hand as she went. Maire brought her a light cloak, and fastened it around her neck. There was a pleasant silence as the two walked down to the gardens hand in hand, both just enjoying each other's company.  
  
Rhoswen fingered a new leaf, the small green growing thing new and light in her hand.  
  
"Are you nervous?" Rhoswen straightened, and turned to look at Boromir, who was standing a few feet away, watching her.  
  
"Nervous about what, milord?"  
  
"Nervous about marriage. You were a week ago-and some time has passed since then. Still you are apprehensive of it?" Rhoswen blushed.  
  
"Now that I know I cannot escape this fate, it seems to have lightened it's load on my mind. Apprehensive? Yes, but the tides of time have ebbed it. I no longer cower in your presence, milord." Boromir chuckled, stepping closer and taking her hand.  
  
"One other thing we need to fix-stop 'milord-ing' me. You are to be my wife. Boromir will do just fine." Rhoswen smiled a little. "I hear your dress is coming along?" The young woman's smile broadened, happy to be back on a subject she knew.  
  
"Yes. It is to be white, with a belt of silver at my waist. The cloth is imported from Anfalas; the master of the weaving guild there sent it as a wedding present." She stopped, and smiled. "Why am I talking to a man of woman's work? I am sure I have you quite bored." Boromir yawned comically, and Rhoswen nudged him in the ribs as if still in her toddler years. Boromir promptly took hold of her waist and lifted her up in the air, spinning her around and setting her back down.  
  
"See! Progress already! The last time I did that, you were within inches of screaming." He kept an arm around her waist as they walked, Rhoswen's hand on top of his, anchoring the arm there. "And yes, this morning has been very tedious. I have been mocked by my brother, been made to stand on a stool all morning to be fitted for an outfit I will wear only once, and- well, I was not a happy man this morning."  
  
"Then let us hope to cheer you?"  
  
"My dear Rhoswen, you are succeeding admirably. For you, all grim thoughts melt away and leave my mind as pure as fresh snow." Rhoswen chuckled.  
  
"If you had not been born the first son of the steward, B-Boromir," she stumbled over his name, "you would have made an excellent poet." At sensing the frown that was imminent at this remark, Rhoswen drew back. "I am sorry if I have offended." Boromir's face, a few seconds ago stony, turned remorseful.  
  
"Another thing you have yet to learn, fairest, is that you need not always seek pardon for something you have done, for I am to be at fault for that. I thought only of my brother then, and I despond of him. Our father does not hold him highest in his favors." He looked at the sky, which was beginning to darken with another spring rain. "We should get inside, else we will be sodden returning to our chambers." He offered an arm, and Rhoswen took it, a little less happy then she had been before they had come outside.  
  
When they reached her doors, Boromir laid an arm across the door, making it impossible for the young woman to open the door.  
  
"A kiss, darling?" Rhoswen looked up at him, and, standing on tipped toes, gave him a peck on the lips. But before she could get down, he was holding her, prolonging a moment of bliss. His tongue gently skimmed her lips, parting them. Rhoswen nearly fainted. When he set her back down, she was shaken, but- in a good way, giddy from the top of her head to her toes.  
  
"May I expect...many more of those?" Boromir smiled.  
  
"Many, and often, if my lady rose desires it. Good bye, my love. I shall dream of you till next we meet." Rhoswen, half in the open door, had to clutch the door to keep from falling over laughing as Boromir dramatically bowed his parting.  
  
"Ha! Who's the merry-andrew now?" Boromir was back in his apartments, watching the rain on his window, transfixed.  
  
"What?" He turned to look at his brother, who was standing ten feet away, brandishing his hand as if hacking orcs with a sword.  
  
"Who's the merry-andrew now? I saw you kissing the Lady Rhoswen like it was the end of the world, and you wanted your say before death should do you part." Boromir looked at his brother, clearly bored.  
  
"Faramir, I await the day when you fall in love and see for yourself that there will be one woman in your life for which you are willing to make an absolute fool of yourself with great amusement. Really, brother, the woman who marries you will have to either be the goddess of love herself, or some shield maid who will just barge in and steal your heart anyway." Faramir considered this.  
  
"You know, brother, that it was not long ago indeed when the only prospect of marriage for you were the two aforementioned options, and look! Your heart's been ensnared by a rose!"  
  
"Rose though she may be, I love her, and nothing save death could tear us apart. Besides, I am particularly fond of roses. And this one is quite beautiful. Besides, that means there is hope still for you." Faramir stopped, frowned, and then chuckled at the thought.  
  
"Of course, Boromir, there was that time when we were- nine?- when you trampled mother's roses playing war in the garden. And that time when we were twelve and one of the maids put a rose in your hair when we went a- maying, and you declared that you'd hate roses forever." Boromir smacked his forehead. Faramir looked at him as if he had lost his marbles. "Are you quite all right?"  
  
"Maying! That is what I've forgotten. I do hope this rain lets up soon." The younger brother looked at his elder as though he had just decided to take a picnic to Mordor.  
  
"You never go maying. You never have, as long as we've been of age, and you've said yourself a hundred times that you never will." Boromir looked at his brother, his eyes full of mirth.  
  
"Brother, I have a love now, and it is a perfect excuse. The whole court goes wild for a day, and I intend to be there." Faramir went back to his room, shaking his head. Boromir could just hear his mumbled  
  
"At the touch of love, every man becomes a poet- Nay, at the touch of love, every man goes mad!"  
  
-*-*-  
  
* Curtain falls, audience applauds. * You like me, you really like me!  
  
Author's notes (or her Pulitzer acceptance speech)  
  
Lotr-nutcase- my one and lovely reviewer- BOROMIR, THOUGH SHALT LIVE! Yes, indeed, everyone's favorite dead guy will, alas, not be dead. *Snickers * And yes, this is pre-fellowship. All will be explained in due course. The next two chappies will be together, as it may make more sense, as I wrote the whole damn thing and am now posting based on reader feedback.  
  
DID YOU HEAR THAT? I WANT FEED BACK!  
  
However, you will have to read my other fic ' Journey through the dark' * subliminal messaging* to see how Boromir doesn't die. *heheheheh * Rhoswen does have a cameo in that one though.  
  
The precious, it calls to us...or is it the little blue button in the corner? C'mon, you know you want to. 


	3. Gone amaying, your majesty?

Disclaimer- I don't own it. No duh....  
  
'Instead, he beholds with secret shame  
  
A form of beauty undefined,  
  
A loveliness with out a name,  
  
Not of degree, but more of kind;  
  
Nor bold nor shy, nor short nor tall,  
  
But a new mingling of them all.  
  
Yes, beautiful beyond belief,  
  
Transfigured and transfused, he sees  
  
The lady of the Pyrenees'  
  
-*-*- Once the rain stopped, it was azure skies and clouds as clean as new lamb's fleece that found the young men and women of the city with picnic baskets and good cheer riding to the Graywood. Boromir and Rhoswen were somewhere in the middle of the array of commoners and nobles alike, all laughing gaily and chatting amongst themselves. It was the one day of the year when every one could forgot protocol, manners, and act according to human nature. Today was for picking flowers, feasting in the trees, and frolicking-in the highest degree of the word-in the forest.  
  
After cloths had been laid down, and the feast was spread, talk was scare amidst the contented chewing and giggles. Wine flowed free from the skins, and there hung in the air the attitude of contentment. The day was warm, and so, abandoning all regard for rules, several of the young men stripped to the skin to swim in the stream, splashing the girls on the bank. Boromir held a hand over Rhoswen's eyes as they dove into the water; She giggled.  
  
"All the better to keep me to yourself, then?" He simply kissed the top of her head. "I'll take that as a yes. Tell me, Boromir, what is it that makes this day so ardent that it's called the 'lusty month of May'. At home, we had no such customs." The captain held her lithe frame in, popping grapes into her mouth.  
  
"Because, dearest, after we are done eating, girls shall go gather flowers, and men shall chase girls, which will result in a few makings of love, and more than a few makings of children." He whispered in her ear. "We shall, of course, avoid that, if my ladyship wishes." Rhoswen smiled uncertainly.  
  
"I have no wish to consummate an unperformed marriage. Yet." She giggled. "You read my mind to easily."  
  
"Perhaps that is because I have studied you too well. We have progressed far in two weeks, have we not? And in two glorious months, the wedding." Rhoswen groaned, and sunk into his chest.  
  
"Don't remind me. I have another fitting tomorrow, and then I shall be encaged sewing my dowry."  
  
"Then of course, we shall avoid it at all costs, precious. Perhaps we can run off to Rohan together and not have to worry about the wedding. Or...perhaps not." He pecked her hair again, searching the saddlebag beside him for something. "I have a gift for you." The young woman looked into his eyes, cautious.  
  
"What?" He produced a small lacquered box, and opening it, Rhoswen gasped. Holding it up to the light, she watched the small diamonds dance on the white golden band. "Where ever did you get it? It's...beautiful." Boromir smiled, his cheek in her hair.  
  
"Faramir helped me-much to his displeasure- pick it out. It was our mother's." Rhoswen caught her breath, paused, stopped admiring it on her finger, and slipped it back in the box.  
  
"I would not feel right, if it was your mother's...please, keep it. I know your father is not one to speak often of her, and he would recognize it." She tried to shove it back in his hands, but he closed her fingers around it.  
  
"I want you to have it...when you wear it, think of me." Rhoswen turned away, a tear in her eye.  
  
"Why the tears, beloved?"  
  
"It makes me sad to know I am the second woman to share your life...so special a privilege, so elevated a right." The big man hugged her close.  
  
"That is no cause for tears, beloved. Tears are for the dead, and I hope not to be that for a time yet. Go, your friends are calling. Find your flowers." He lifted her up, brushing the crumbs off his wardrobe. She blew him a kiss, and ran off barefoot, hair flying as she ran, gathering up skirts, the perfect picture of content. The group of young men drying themselves off from their swim beckoned him over, and he went to go chat.  
  
Rhoswen and the other young ladies picked their flowers in silence, the calm warm breeze and the birdsong needing no interruption. Rhoswen, arms full of still blooming morning glories and the snow-white sprays of baby's breath, was walking through the high grass, when there was a rustle from behind her. She turned abruptly to see Boromir, a lazy, conniving grin on his face. She backed up a few steps; he took one, and caught up. Her breathing was shallow and quick-the old fear was back.  
  
"My lord is drunk." Boromir grinned conspiratorially.  
  
"Nay, only beset with a heart that burns for you." Rhoswen glanced around the glade: there was no one. Was this some cruel joke or jest?  
  
"Step no further, sir, or I will take insult." Rhoswen was visibly afraid, her hands shaking, the flowers seeming to wilt in her hands. She stepped backwards some, her feet prickling at the unfamiliar feeling of the dirt forest floor. Then she did what most women do when in love and alone- she ran, ran as fast as she possibly could-but what match is a woman for a man when running, when one is in skirts and the other not thus constricted? The lover caught up easily, pinning her to a tree.  
  
"Why do you recoil? I am in my senses."  
  
"My sweet prince, why must you persecute me so? What have I done that displeased you?"  
  
"Ah, my dear princess, it is what you have not done that haunts me so!"  
  
"What is this game? I must be sure to tell my ladies that maying should be avoided at all costs." Boromir laughed, throwing his head to the sky.  
  
"My lady, can you not hear the call of the forest primeval? Can you not hear what your heart foretells before the sun is out?" Rhoswen looked at him, feeling the heat rising in her face.  
  
"Did I not say this was to be avoided?" seeing her question go unheeded, she switched tack quickly. "Your father will have my head."  
  
"Then my father need never know. I beg you...my heart burns!"  
  
"As does mine!" at the sudden outburst, Boromir stepped back, hands falling to his sides. Rhoswen continued, eyes afire with tears. "But I do not wear my heart on my sleeve-I cannot. I refuse to be regarded as a common whore!" She sniffled. Her companion made to embrace her, but she pushed him away, a hand to her eyes. "Leave me. I would be alone for a while. Then, we may return to the city." She walked away, the faint sound of crying still able to be heard in the thickets.  
  
Boromir was sitting, watching the sun go down. Abandoned picnic baskets still littered the grass, a faint breeze stirring the stalks. He ran a hand over the well-worn leather of his scabbard-even here, in this lighthearted day, we still have need of weaponry, he thought. When will this cruel war be over, this shadow finally blighted? A scream echoed from the forest, and Boromir instinctively grabbed the hilt of his sword. The scream was all too familiar.  
  
Wolves, huge brutes with teeth that could tear a man to shreds, now occupied the clearing where he had left Rhoswen earlier. They were clustered around a single form, an ominous snarl from the mouth of one when Boromir, sword in hand, entered the clearing. They stepped back from their carrion, and advanced on the captain, coming down like wheat before the scythe on his sword. Now littered with wolf corpses, Boromir looked at the slender, bleeding body: it was Rhoswen. With gentle arms, he picked the young woman up and carried her back to their horses.  
  
Guards met them at the gate, torches in hand. One look at the bloodied form the weary captain held, and faces went grimmer.  
  
"Send for the steward!"  
  
"Send for a healer! The warden!"  
  
"Make way!" a soldier helped Boromir off his horse, asking if he was injured.  
  
"See to the woman first...I need no leeches now." He staggered off to the House of the King, a worried Faramir running out to greet him, cloak and boots thrown hastily on with his nightshirt. The younger son wrapped his cloak about his brother, and the elder, leaning on his shoulder, limped inside.  
  
"Rhoswen shall live, they say, and the scarring will not be noticeable. Brother, I leave for Osgiliath at the weeks end. Please, I beg you, brother; do not draw the enemy's devices to you. I know the light in your eyes would let you go purge the Graywood of wolves for the pain they have inflicted on your heart, but you must not be driven by hotheadedness."  
  
Boromir wearily looked in his brother's eyes. His eyes were bleary from crying-Faramir had heard him late into the night, weeping- and his body showed the signs of lack of sleep. It was now late morning, but the sun seemed to be refusing to shine, the gray sky blank and mind numbing.  
  
"Take some rest, at least. It is not well for the heir to the throne to take ill in this grievous hour." Boromir scowled.  
  
"I can find no rest within these walls-my anger only fuels my bloodlust. I was the cause of her pain, Faramir; I cannot forgive myself! My mind was addled, my words not in my right mind, and my actions, dishonorable. I drove her to seek other company and solace in the silence of the trees... and now she is-" He broke off, crying again. Faramir laid a hand on his should consolingly. "I know not how I can face her."  
  
"If tears were words, brother, I believe a small book would be in order. As they are not, I can only say...speak truly, and from the heart, for it is the heart that always speaks truest, or so many men say. Ask for forgiveness- she will give it, and willingly. You left her not to die, and she will think your mourning ill placed. One look at your sorry face, and I think she will care not you were the cause of her agonies. Many burdens are endured for love, Boromir-remember that." Faramir gave him a sage look, and departed, leaving a disheartened Boromir with naught but his tears and his thoughts for company; a very sad company indeed.  
  
There was a small rapping on the chamber door, and Rhoswen opened her eyes tiredly to see one of the healers peeping around the door, a tray in her hands sending a thin steam onto the chill morning air. With a wearied hand, she beckoned the woman in. No words were spoken as the servant laid the tray on a table beside the bed, bowed, and left. Rhoswen looked at the door, half expecting the woman to come back, and let her eyes slid shut with sleep.  
  
Maire came in, and looked at her sleeping mistress, then at the still warm bowl of soup at her bedside. Carefully, she roused the sleeping woman, and together the two sat, eating soup.  
  
"How is Boromir?" Rhoswen broke the silence.  
  
"Well." Maire seemed short for words today.  
  
"You would have me think that well is enough? You withhold from me, Maire, and I dislike it." The lady in waiting sighed.  
  
"He has spent the whole day in his room, crying. He hates himself for what happened; the lord Faramir has told me not to expect him to come round until his self exacted penance of tears has been paid in full." Rhoswen smiled slightly at this news.  
  
"One of the strongest men in the land, and he cries for me, weeps for me, and wishes my pain for his- a most uncommon bond." Maire smiled wisely.  
  
"That is love, the last full measure of devotion, and you know every blessed inch of that sacred plot. For the love of a woman, some men will do...anything."  
  
"I fear I cannot allow his penance to go unanswered. Maire, I require cloth and thread. Sterner stuff than silk or linen- this will be no embroidery to be hung as an ornament."  
  
Boromir looked around the door a week later, and knocked lightly on the doorframe.  
  
"The captain heir, I am told, does not cower in the face of anything. Why is it, then, that he is afraid to face me-I am no threat. Come hither, lover mine." The invalid woman held up a hand, and beckoned him in.  
  
"The healers told me you were confined to bed." Rhoswen was sitting in her solar, the warm sun heating her back, a smell of crushed flowers and cloth permeating the room. Boromir came in, and took the seat at her side. The lady was sewing something on a white cloth, and handed her work off to her lady as the captain heir sat down.  
  
"The healers told you wrong. Why did you not come and visit me?"  
  
"I was afraid, my lady."  
  
"Afraid of me? I am not a thing to be feared-you know this. Blood loss is no cause for a change in view, lord Boromir. Why were you fearful? I must know."  
  
"I feel at fault for your injuries, Rhoswen." The young woman looked at her lap; her hands were shaking. Her lady drew a coverlet of fur around her shoulders, and the young woman pulled the lap robe closer to her.  
  
"There is no one to be at fault save me, and my virgin stupidity. What I did was rash, and unthinking-even the youngest of maids knows not to wander in the wood without companion or knife." She drew in a breath, still shaking. "My brother in law to be tells me that women who do not know their place anger you; I apologize, for this is me. I am the servant, and you are the master." Boromir looked at Rhoswen; the young woman was close to tears, her hands knit tightly in her lap, face downcast. With some reluctance, he took her hand.  
  
"I ask that that not be so, for you can me master with the slightest of touches, and it is I who feel I should serve. What my brother said was true, once. But opinions change, and that one certainly has. When we first met, I had not known you, and now know that with seeing you, and talking with you, I feel that the flower free in the field is far more beautiful than the clipped bloom in the vase. Keep yourself, all your charms and free will, my rose, and my love shall multiply a hundredfold. I love you as you are, and you need not change for me." He gave the small hand a clasp. Rhoswen looked at him, and smiled.  
  
"When has your father set the date of your wedding? Has he told you yet? I was informed it was to be in June."  
  
"Yes. My father is having the announcements engraved as we speak. And once we are wedded and bedded, I think the task of finding Faramir a wife will turn to you and me." Rhoswen chuckled.  
  
"I think Faramir will be hard placed to find a woman of Minas Tirith to love him-they all find him too wrapped in his library dust. I have the warrior brother, and I will follow with much adoration the woman who keeps the scholar. Faramir is a hard man to please, as far as women go."  
  
"That he is, and when he finally marries, I shall be waiting with bright eyes, and a happy heart. He needs a wife."  
  
"Has he already left for Osgiliath?" Boromir nodded.  
  
"Faramir hates staying at court long. Father is not the best company when feelings towards you are not good ones." He looked at Rhoswen, who was still smiling, and laid a hand carefully on her shoulder. She flinched a little, her face stirring to the soreness.  
  
"Was the bite bad?"  
  
"They say there will be marks."  
  
"All the better for me not to forget that roses are delicate, and should be treated with the utmost care." The lady giggled. "I must take my leave of you now, so that you may work on your sewing in peace. Until tomorrow, precious rose, I shall despair without your face." He bowed out of the room with a kiss to her cheek.  
  
It was in her solar two weeks later that Boromir found himself again, discussing, of all things, diplomacy, with his wife to be. He roused himself from the problem at hand, and looked at Rhoswen, who was deeply engrossed in the subject with him  
  
"Why am I telling you of this?"  
  
"Because as your wife, when you ride off for country and glory, I shall be left to govern the city, and so it falls to me to see that the country runs well while blood runs on the fields of some far off contingent." Rhoswen smiled knowledgably.  
  
"My betrothed is a brazen creature, indeed."  
  
"All the better to keep your impudence in check, milord." Boromir laughed full heartedly, the booming peal filling the whole room.  
  
"I've gone and tied myself to the only woman who can control me, and with words, no less! Gods in heaven help me!" the lighthearted air filling the room rapidly left it when one of the guardsmen rushed in, red-faced and out of breath.  
  
"Your brother calls for aid, sire. Osgiliath is under heavy attack, and he fears he cannot hold the city. He needs assistance." Boromir rose, the happiness in his face replaced by resolution.  
  
"I will ride at once." Rhoswen caught his arm.  
  
"Boromir, wait. Take this. I have been making it for you, and now seems the opportune time to give it." She unfurled the banner across her lap, the white tree splashed across the folds in wheaten gold thread. "Take it with you, and crown the tallest tower with in your victory, Boromir." The tall man nodded, grave, and kissed her hand, and pausing, pulled her up to him for a heavier kiss, not caring that people watched.  
  
"I may not return from my endeavors. Remember me this way." Rhoswen nodded, and Her betrothed strode out of the room with a purposeful walk, the flag in his hands. She could hear him down the hall say to one of his riders,  
  
"Mount this as our standard. Hands that love this city much wove it." The young woman turned away, her face in tears. 


	4. Full of Blossom and Bloom

Disclaimer- I own nothing, and therefore, am nothing...I think. Dialogue courtesy of new line cinemas. Nuf said.  
  
-*-*-*-  
  
Boromir looked across the great city of Osgiliath, his viewpoint at the top of what had once been a great tower proffering a grand view. He could hear the men chanting his name as he planted the white and gold flag of the house of stewards into the broken tower, and his voice rang across the once white, now ash-blood stained ruins.  
  
"This city was once the jewel of our kingdom, a place of light and beauty and music, and so it shall be once more! Let the armies of Mordor know this: never again will the land of my people fall into in enemy hands! The city of Osgiliath has been reclaimed for Gondor! For Gondor! For Gondor!" Cheering erupted through the ranks, and Boromir looked around, reveling in his victory.  
  
Faramir walked up to congratulate him, clapping him on the shoulder, both laughing at the various degrees of disarray and dishevelment on the other.  
  
"Good speech; nice and short." The older man laughed.  
  
"Leaves more time for drinking. Break out the ale! These men are thirsty." Boromir poured two goblets from the nearest keg, and raising his in toast, drank up.  
  
"Remember today, little brother. Today," Here he smiled, and raised the cup, "life is good." Faramir raised the cup to his lips, and drank. But he had been looking over his brother's shoulder at one figure clad in black, the silvered black-gray of his long hair framing his wizened face. Boromir saw his brother's mood darken, and asked with growing concern,  
  
"What is it?" Faramir simply replied,  
  
"He is here." His brother turned around, to see their father coming through the crowd. His face likened to Faramir's in mood, the once jovial smile turning to a frown of annoyance and perhaps anger.  
  
"One moment of peace, can he not give us that?" Faramir could tell his brother was more than a little annoyed. Already, the two men could hear their father's voice, running rank with pride.  
  
"Where is he? Where is Gondor's finest? Where is my firstborn?" Boromir quickly brightened his look for Denethor, who had finally made his way over to the duo.  
  
"Father!" The elder man turned, and smiled.  
  
"I am so proud of you! The captain heir's glories will be sung in the city tonight by many a bard. But let me not waste your time; There is someone else here who would like to see you." Boromir's eyes faded into joy at the sight of a young woman in the borrowed green cloak of a Ranger.  
  
"Rhoswen!" He flung her name to the breeze, and she ran to him, the hood coming off to reveal black hair. He picked her up, and spun her around, her willowy hands slipping on his armored shoulders.  
  
"It has been too long, my love." Oh, how that smile made him melt, how that voice made him tremble with passion!  
  
"A thousand lifetimes." He set her down, and kissed the crown of her hair, relishing the smell of her damp hair and perfume. "Now that I see you here, I think my speech was empty words. Truly, the fairest jewel of Gondor is in my arms."  
  
"You give me too much credit. Númenorean craftsmanship far surpasses me."  
  
"Ah, but I would rather fight for you, dear rose, than any stonework long besieged."  
  
"Your father was wise to not let your love be given soon- you would be torn from your work. But tell me of the battle. They say you vanquished the enemy almost single-handed." Her face was wreathed in smiles, the perfect picture of innocence and beauty, grace and laughter.  
  
"They exaggerate." Boromir said quickly with a grin, turning to his brother. "The victory belongs to Faramir also."   
  
"Then my congratulations are extended to Faramir as well. It has been long, brother." Faramir hugged the woman who was like a sister close, savoring the tang of her hair. Oh, to have a lover like her. "I thank you for the cloak."  
  
"Not a favor that was ill to do, I see. It fits you well." She stood back and looked at both brothers, her face filled with laughter and light.  
  
"I have not been all telling of what female ears may come upon- many a man has told me that both brothers were to be given merit for the triumph. See what good comes when you get your head out of your books, Faramir?" Denethor's cold tone brought him back down to earth swiftly.  
  
"But for Faramir, this city would still be standing. Were you not entrusted to protect it?" Faramir quailed; this was so like his father. Rhoswen swallowed uneasily, her face falling intoafterthought.  
  
"I would have done, but our numbers were too few."  
  
"Oh, too few. You let the enemy walk in and take it on a whim." The Steward turned away from his younger son, looking at his firstborn.  
  
"Always you cast a poor reflection on me."  
  
"That is not my intent," Boromir's constrained even voice turned surly.  
  
"You give him no credit, and yet he tries to do your will. All he wants is to please you!" He stalked off, his father following. Faramir and Rhoswen watched, and the younger woman sighed.  
  
"I am sorry your father does not see eye to eye with you. Boromir does not mean to alienate you...it is evident I should not have come." The young woman looked down at her shoes. Faramir could begin to see why his brother was moved to adoration for this woman, why he wanted to protect her from anything, this delicate rose in the path of briars.  
  
"Nay, sweet Rhos. Your coming is good for me, and for Boromir. All his thoughts have been at home. He needs you to live like fish need water. It is Father who should not have come." They turned at Boromir's angered yell from the corner where he stood talking with Denethor.  
  
"My place is here with my people! Not in Rivendell!" The tall man began to pace away, Denethor laid a hand on his arm, attempting to pacify the stung ox. Faramir looked at his gauntleted hands, and stepped forward.  
  
"If there is need to go to Rivendell, send me in his stead." Boromir looked at his brother, hopeful. Denethor's sneer returned.  
  
"You? Oh, I see. A chance for Faramir, Captain of Gondor, to show his quality- I think not." Faramir's face fell ever so slightly, and Rhoswen saw the slightest of slumps in his proud shoulders at the graze to his pride. "I trust this mission only to your brother. The one who will not fail me." Boromir looked at Rhoswen, and then at Faramir, and his face fell.  
  
"I am staying in the city for the night, as is Rhoswen. Be ready to leave at dawn's light tomorrow." Denethor turned on his heel and went through the ranks, a false smile back on, congratulating men as he went. Boromir looked at Rhoswen, his eyes regretful. Rhoswen took one of his gloved hands, and they walked silently to his quarters.  
  
Once the door had been shut, Boromir sat down heavily at the plain table, head in his hands. Rhoswen's voice seemed small in this stark room.  
  
"The wedding will have to be postponed."  
  
"Forgive me, dear heart." Boromir's voice was heavy, as though he were trying not to cry.  
  
"All is forgiven. The country matters more than I. Gondor needs her captain heir. Rhoswen can wait for Boromir." The captain looked up from his hands.  
  
"It is a long road to Imaladris, precious."  
  
"Then my patience will be tested."  
  
"And mine wears thin! Father thinks only of Gondor, Gondor, Gondor. The captain heir does not want to go- he would rather stay and people think him a coward than be away from his rose." He sunk back into Rhoswen, standing behind him, her hands on his shoulders, gently massaging. "My country is a fickle mistress." He mumbled. Rhoswen chuckled.  
  
"The rose will be taken care of, I assure you. There are many at its plot that know that the lord who grows the roses would be unhappy ere its color fades. And it will not care that country is paid more heed then it. Go to your councils. Make your father proud." Boromir turned to look at her at the mention of his sire, and stood.  
  
"The Steward said you were to stay in the city tonight..." Rhoswen stepped back, her eyes showing fear.  
  
"You would not...Boromir, the city is filled with men..."  
  
"Who will be drunk, and not hear us. Please, Rhos, I beg you...I burn with unquenchable flame!"  
  
"Your brother will hear!"  
  
"Faramir will not care. Please...it is a three month journey...three months without seeing your delightful face..."  
  
"It will not happen." Boromir's smile changed from contrite into thoughtful, and he rushed on the young woman, pinning her to the bed.  
  
"Who wins?"  
  
"Not you! Please, Boromir, it is I who beg you! What if you die?"  
  
"Then it will be all the better for having had you in my bed."  
  
"I will not be maiden! Who will marry me then?"  
  
"No one...I've ruined you utterly, so now you shall have to pray I don't die!" He laid a series of kisses on her throat, taking in the warmth of her skin, the feeling of her breathing on his brow. He loved this feeling of another body beneath his, the rising and falling of her chest.  
  
"For you, my dearest rose...I would pass all the circles of this world...slay dragons for your smile...swim oceans to hear your voice...die to feel your love again."  
  
"High words, for a man who must have his reward now or perish for want of it." Boromir examined the bodice of her dress, and unsheathed his dagger, holding the blade so the light glanced on it.  
  
"I think this will do nicely..." Rhoswen looked at the dirk with hostility.  
  
"For what?"  
  
"Why, to force your dress open, my dear woman."  
  
"Boromir! Please, I have not brought a second dress."  
  
"Then I shall find a way into this dress...perhaps a rebel inside will open the gates for me?" He pleaded with his eyes, fingers dancing amongst her hair, draped across the furs spread on his bed.  
  
"Such things are for after dinner." Boromir lifted her legs on the bed along with the rest of her, and laid his head on her neck, nuzzling.  
  
"Then I think I shall take rest while I wait." There was a pause. "This is sinfully comfortable. You should let me do this more often." The vibrations of her laughter reverberated through his head.  
  
Boromir lifted his head from Rhoswen's gently moving chest a few hours later, opening the shutters to an inky sky, and stole out the door for dinner, leaving the soundly sleeping woman in his bed. In his bed, he thought with a smirk.  
  
When Rhoswen awoke, Boromir was silently lighting candles, two plates of steaming food at either side of his table.  
  
"What is this?"  
  
"Dinner."  
  
"How long have I been sleeping?"  
  
"Nearly three hours. You are well rested, and that is good- I may not let you sleep tonight." Rhoswen groggily rose from the bed, looking warily back at it, and seating herself at the table, where Boromir was pouring wine into goblets. He drew up his chair, and sat with arms folded, staring entranced at her as she raised the cup to her lips. She looked over the lip of her chalice, and met his eyes, setting the cup back down.  
  
"Why do you stare so?"  
  
"I am drowning in your beauty, Rhos."  
  
"Let us eat, before you steal my appetite and my heart." Boromir chuckled, and forked in a bite of the still steaming meat.  
  
There was a resigned silence as they finished dinner, neither wanting to speak. Rhoswen drew back from the table, Boromir laying his hands on her shoulders. She looked over her shoulder.  
  
"Why must you torment me so?"  
  
"Love is torment, and I suffer as much as you, ablaze with insatiable passion. Can you not feel it? My blood boils!" He guided her quivering hand to his hip, her breathing quickening. His hand began to unlace her bodice, and the soft cloth fell to the floor. She turned, and ran a hand over his coat, her breathing striving to stay level, his catching in his throat. A coat joined the dress on the floor, followed quickly by a shirt and pants.  
  
There was a furious scuffling, and a muffled groan of ecstasy as the candles guttered and went out in the quarters of the captain.  
  
Faramir was nursing a headache. He'd been up more than was healthy, hunched over his papers. Boromir's saddlebags stood in the corner- he'd packed them right after dinner as his brother had asked. Massaging his head, he stood and stretched, peering out his window at the still darkened sky. There was an ardent groan from his brother's room next door, and Faramir, cocked an eyebrow, tiptoeing over to look through the crack in the door between the rooms.  
  
Boromir's golden head was resting on a naked white shoulder, raven hair spilling across his tanned back. A hand- a disconcerting familiar female hand- spilled off the side of the bed, it's owner still in the throws of sleep. Faramir thought for the tiniest of moments that his brother looked rather good there before realizing that Rhoswen had probably spent the night there...a rather disquieting thought.  
  
  
  
Rhoswen roused herself as the sun hit her eyes, uncomfortable with the weight of her lover pushing her into the bed.  
  
"Boromir? Boromir, wake up please...the sun is nearly risen...your father will want you to leave soon."  
  
"I don't want to leave...I want to stay with you like this forever."  
  
"Not possible. Now get up...you're crushing me." Boromir shifted his weight, easing off of Rhoswen's willowy white frame, burying his nose in her spread out hair.  
  
"Mmm...you even smell like roses..."  
  
"You jest!"  
  
"I do not, Rhos. You remind me of spring, full of blossoming beauty. " He gently ran a calloused finger over the whitened scars on her shoulder, her skin quivering at his touch. "A grievously paid reminder to take heed to all that which is fair."  
  
"Get up, or your brother will wonder what kept you." Rhoswen pushed his hand away from her scar. There was too much emotion in that bite-what it meant, what it would forever be. A sign that she was weak and merited protection, a badge of frailty. It boded not well to be reminded of such things.  
  
"Fine, I'll get off..."A chagrined heir of Gondor got up, stretching in the sliver of sun from the slightly cracked shutters. Rhoswen propped herself on an elbow as she watched Boromir look for his clothes, pulling a shirt and pants from a chest, and pulling them over his head. Rhoswen yawned.  
  
"I suppose I shall have to get up too." She pulled a sheet from the bed and retrieved her clothes from the floor, stepping into the corner where anyone watching from the window couldn't see her.  
  
"Boromir, be quick...your horse will need to be readied, and you still have to pack."  
  
"Faramir packed for me...I would forget anything of consequence." He turned to go out the door, but Rhoswen hurled a slipper in his direction, catching him on the head. He turned, picked up the projectile, looked it over, and then looked at the thrower.  
  
"Help me...my dress needs to be tied." Boromir smiled, and tied the stays with a practiced hand.  
  
"I want to give you this..." Rhoswen picked up her necklace from the bedside table, a finely cut white stone on a silver chain.  
  
"Wear it and remember me."  
  
"Every waking moment...my dreams shall be full of you while I sleep. Rhoswen...if I should not return...I would like it be known that you should marry Faramir." The young woman stared.  
  
"Do not speak so! You will return." Boromir shook his head soberly, painfully aware that this might be the last time he saw Rhoswen, and they would part in tears.  
  
"It is a long road, and a hard one, and there are many dangers. But if I do not return, at least think better of my brother." Rhoswen looked about to speak, but it caught in her throat, and she turned away as he shut the door, crying into her hands.  
  
-*-*-*-  
  
Well, I'm glad that's over. Having taken all considerations to heart when I added some things after the massive amount of reviews, I will now attempt to respond to all the LOVELY FEED BACK.  
  
DID YOU SEE? I STILL WANT FEEDBACK! Truly, it does help me.  
  
mystery science seed 3000 - I'm glad you think so! Thanks so much.   
  
LOTR-nutcase-I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU! * faithful reviewer music starts*  
  
Any way.... I have this problem wherewith I spout dialogue that my friends swear sounds like Shakespeare- believe me when I say that they think I'm the reincarnation of the Bard as a female.  
  
The other review- Faramir shall not die either, and he will marry Éowyn (You saw/read all the good junk about him getting married and how Boromir will be laughing.). To destroy love, something that beautiful, that pure, is sacrilege in the highest of degrees. And Boromir is serious about marrying Rhoswen, but the CoE may be an axe in the works as far as going on with the wedding at the right date goes. And the steward thing...well, you have to read the rest of Gabrielin to see what happens there. (Do I see any review there? NO. Read and leave review! *Subliminal messaging*) As for the maying thing, I'm going to respond with a quote from 'Camelot' the musical I just finished being in.  
  
"Gone a-maying, your majesty?" (see where that chapter got it's name!?) "Yes, It's a sort of picnic." "Pic...nic, your majesty?" "Well, yes...you eat grapes, and chase girls around trees...it's the time for flower gathering." "Knights gathering flowers, your majesty?" "Well, someone's got to do it!"  
  
shalindra - I'm glad we're on the same page. (I don't want either to die, either.) And Rhoswen does have wits, you just haven't seen them yet. Right now, she's still in the uber-emotional stage. This is a big life change(read: getting married to someone you've never met) and she's mentally on a shaky ladder-read: unstable- but in chapter 4, she does show she has a brain, as evidenced above, and is not so quick to cry. Once she's gotten used to the fact that Boromir is not Boribble, she'll calm down a bit. Right now she wants to take the blame for everyone because she's just the kind of person that doesn't want anyone else to get hurt, showing (I think) immense strength of heart. 


	5. A Merry midwinter to you, Brother

The act of Disclaiming * And thou shalt disclaim that you ownest nothing, and thy lawyers brandishing lawsuits shall be appeased* - I own nothing...yeah...though I want to know if Tolkien or his estate is interested in selling me Boromir...  
  
-*-*-*-*-  
  
The dim light of winter filtered in through the glass window, falling through the filmy curtains of Rhoswen's bed. The young woman blinked at the light from the open window, and yawned. The sound of children's voices echoed in the corridors, along with the metallic banging of pots and pans.  
  
"Kings and lords must now give way! Lords of Misrule rule the day!"  
  
"It is the first of the Midwinter festival, milady." Maire said, holding the curtains back with one hand and the dress her mistress was to wear that day draped over the other. Rhoswen took the dress from her maid, and undraped the fur-lined robe from a waiting chair, and went to change behind her screen.  
  
"Have you wrapped my gifts for Faramir and the Steward, Maire?" The nightgown flipped over the top of the screen.  
  
"I have, milady. Please take care. You are prone to colds in this weather- dress quickly." Rhoswen came out from the screen, and offered the ties on her dress to her servant, who laced them up with expert ease. There was a knocking at the door, and the lady in waiting went to go answer it while Rhoswen broke the ice on her wash bowl, and splashed the ice liquid on her face, briefly reveling in the rosewater's smell. The noble woman was just sponging off the last of the rose scented drops when her maid ushered in the page in the livery of the Steward, wearing a black tunic with a tree picked out in white that fit him ill. The child bent on one knee, and offered the rose in his hands, his head bowed to the floor.  
  
"Lord Faramir presents this rose as a token of esteem for his sister, and requests that she pay visit at earliest convenience." Rhoswen smiled, and took the rose.  
  
"Tell the Lord Faramir that I will join him in the quickest manner possible." The boy got up, bowed stiffly, and left. Rhoswen looked fondly at the rose in her hands, and held her arms out as Maire slid the sable edged surcoat over her mulberry dress.  
  
"Let us not keep my lordship waiting."  
  
Faramir turned from his gazing out the snow fraught window as Rhoswen entered the solar, rushing to greet his brother's fiancé, cutting a demure and unassuming figure of the rose for which she was named in the rubine purple and darker crimson of her dress and coat.  
  
"A merry midwinter to you, Brother."  
  
"A merry midwinter to you as well, Rhoswen. I trust you enjoyed the rose?"  
  
"Wherever did you find it? There is snow on the ground...I thought all the roses dead."  
  
"Save for one, and that is in the possession of my brother. No, I have far too many friends in the city who were willing to sacrifice a bloom for the fiancé of the High Warden. But enough of the rose- I have a far more dear gift for you...From Boromir." Faramir picked up the parcel from the table, and handed it to his sister in law. She let the gorgeous violet velvet folds of a cloak embroidered in leaves fall to the floor, marveling at the warm touch of the fabric.  
  
"Faramir...it too beautiful for Boromir alone to have picked out. You had some hand in it, I know that far." Faramir shrugged.  
  
"I could hardly let him give you a black cloak, could I? You would look like a Nazgul." They both laughed.  
  
"I have another gift for you."  
  
"You spoil me, brother." Faramir beckoned to the chamberlain, who opened the door and let a pair of dogs come yelping into the room. The two skidded to a halt in front of Faramir, who raised a command-laced voice.  
  
"Siobhan! Dubhliann! Heel!" The dogs obediently stopped and sat, tags thumping expectantly on the floor. Faramir knelt down, starching throats and crooning praises.  
  
"This one," He pointed at the black and gray, "is Dubhliann, and the other is his sister, Siobhan." He gestured a hand at the tawny female. The rangers found them...six months ago when they were just pups, and trained them to be some of the best hunting dogs I've ever seen. Dubhliann is staying here, and Siobhan is going back to Ithilien so she can hunt partridge with me." He looked at his sister in law, beaming as she reached a hand to let Dubhliann sniff and lick the proffered limb. "What do you think?"  
  
"I think he is beautiful, Faramir. Thank you for him." She rubbed a hand on the dog's short coat, and the animal sat down lazily, looking up at his mistress with liquid calm eyes. She got up and gestured Maire forward, taking the package the maid held.  
  
"This is for you." Faramir ripped the string off, and unfolded a soft shirt, sewn with love and care by his sister in law.  
  
"Rhoswen, I can only say that my brother is a lucky man indeed for having found such a good seamstress. I will wear it to the banquet tonight. Rhos...be you ill?" the lady's face had fallen, and she turned form her brother in law to the window, gazing out over the snow frosted landscape.  
  
"Have you any word from Boromir, brother?"  
  
"None, though I am sad placed to say such, Rhos. We had one, saying that he reached Imaladris and that the elves were nice folk, abet still not to be trusted in their wierding ways, and another saying that he did not know how long his errand would keep him...but he said naught of how the councils went. But words were passed...which were meant, I can only assume, for you." Rhoswen turned to look at Faramir again.  
  
"What did he say."  
  
"That he wished to hold you in his arms again...and many other things I should not like to repeat now." Faramir looked uncomfortably at his boots. Rhoswen pulled herself closer to Faramir, uplifting his chin to gaze into her eyes.  
  
"You know, don't you...you know of what happened before he left..."  
  
"I could not help but hear, milady." Faramir hung his head again, and Rhoswen continued to look out the window, somewhat despondent.  
  
"There is not shame in it...and the healers tell me I have no child of the Steward's son in my womb." She looked back suddenly at Faramir, a fear in her eyes.  
  
"You have not told the Steward, have you?"  
  
"Nay; I keep those private things only in my heart. It is not for father to know love, since he has lost what he had long ago." The Steward's younger son's words seemed harsh and despairing.  
  
"I know your father's graces are not always on you, my dear brother, but what is the displeasure of a father when the love of a brother and sister can be yours? Love is, after all, worth much more than abhorrence. Now come, Faramir, and we shall face your father together. I have heard misery loves company."  
  
"You hate him as much as I do!"  
  
"No, I dislike him-he is wrapped up in what has been and what cannot be changed, and there for is not high in my fondnesses. Come now; the formalities cannot be escaped." She took the shirt from his hands, laid it on the table, and walked her brother out the door, a reassuring hand on his arm. "Perhaps we can find you a young woman to dance with!" Rhoswen laughed, and Faramir could not help but laugh too as the shorter woman escorted him down the hall, chatting enthusiastically. Maire looked down the hallway, and then back at the dogs, still lying lethargically on the floor.  
  
"If I didn't know she was engaged to his brother, I'd say there's more than brotherly love in her heart for the lord Faramir."  
  
The dogs yawned.  
  
The great hall of Kings was filled with laughter and merriment, with bright clad jugglers and musicians roaming about the hall. Many lords and ladies from distant reaches of Gondor had come to celebrate the turning of the year. Snagging two glasses of the spiced wine that let its tang waft through the air at random, Faramir handed one to his sister as she walked to the chair in which the steward was sitting.  
  
"Wes Hail, Steward Denethor!" The aging steward looked at his daughter in law, and smiled, stepping down from the dais on which his chair sat.  
  
"Rhoswen! You look far too beautiful for words tonight, daughter." Rhoswen laughed, and Denethor grasped one of her hands in two of his, kissing the proffered hand. "My son was wise indeed to consider you. Now come, I have gifts for you. For both of you." Faramir was taken aback...Did Father really want to pay him heed this night?  
  
In a small side chamber, where the music and the light was dulled, Denethor presented Rhoswen with a small carven box. She looked at the lid, then at Denethor, and Faramir, and opened it.  
  
Inside, nestled on velvet folds, was a necklace, silver cord threaded with a single pendant, circular in size. The young woman lifted the necklace out with gentle fingers, holding the pendant so it could catch the light. In the center of the knot worked circle, a large, single ruby was set, and around the edge, Rhoswen could faintly see gold glowing runes in the silver.  
  
"What do the runes mean? I do not speak the ancient tongues."  
  
"A blessing for the home, tis all." The steward ran a finger by the runes as he read them. "From the hearth in the hall, to the shield on the wall, may this house stand in blessing for king and for all. And it is my hope that your house will be blessed in manner not unlike to this." Rhoswen embraced her father in law.  
  
"Thank you my lord...this gift is too much to receive."  
  
"But not too much for me to give. And Faramir...I had hoped to give one to your brother, but he will get his in his turn." He unwrapped from black velveteen folds a knife, the hilts of black wood inlaid with pearl Elvish letters, spelling out his name in soft curves and gently waving lines.  
  
"I have the other for your brother, the companion to that one. Many blessings for the new year, son of mine." He hugged his son and held him close, but Faramir could only wonder...why was it he did this?  
  
-*-*-* I have no intent to make anything happen between Faramir and Rhoswen, though many of you have been led astray (on purpose) by my hints. I do humbly beg forgiveness from the Faramir/ Éowyn shippers for this misstep.  
  
On another note- I think I'm going to make this plea standard.  
  
In reviews (Which I KNOW you'll give me because you are nice people) I would like you to tell me specifically what it was you liked, if I can improve, how I can improve, and what I can improve on. A little more than- it was great, I loved it, write more, if you please.  
  
Thank you for your continued cooperation and support.  
  
Mercury G. 


	6. Give me no Grief

This chapter was written with lots of love, and emails from my fellow Gwethil Angoliel. You flame me, she sets her balrog Freddie on you...and I warn you, an angry balrog is not pleasant.  
  
And I don't own Aerwyn, she is similarly on loan along with Freddie. And I don't own any canonical characters you recognize. The only character I can lay claim to (legally) is Rhoswen.  
  
If you haven't read Angoliel's fic, ' Summer in Dol Amroth' I suggest you do so before moving on. It'll help you identify with Aerwyn.  
  
----  
  
Aerwyn stepped lightly off her horse into the freshly fallen snow, looking up at the brightly lit windows of her home with a smile; finally, she had been able to convince her uncle to let her come home. Handing her snow dotted cloak off to the servant waiting in the hall, she wound her way through courtiers to find her father. Her winter travel dress was made of wool to keep her warm- she had forsaken her ranger gear with the explanation that the dress was indeed warmer. Denethor was sitting and talking to several of his councilors, and looked up to see the dark haired woman greet him.  
  
"Father," she smiled, walking forward, her arms open.  
  
"Aerwyn? You have grown, daughter. I can scarce believe it is you!" he embraced her heartily and kissed the crown of her head, still wet from the snowy ride.  
  
"How have things been in the White City since you sent me to Dol Amroth?"  
  
"Good, but they will be better now that my sister has returned." Aerwyn turned to look straight at her older brother, who held a glass of spiced wine. She turned back to her father, who waved them away.  
  
"Go with your brother - I know you two have much to speak of. But I shall have you to myself very soon, my Aerwyn!" the Steward called after them. At last, Denethor's heart could truly be at ease; his daughter was home.  
  
"Faramir! It is good to see you again." She hugged her brother close once they had gotten out of the crowds and into a small antechamber.  
  
"Aerwyn, you've grown even more beautiful, if that could be possible. And taller, too! When last we parted, you were but up to here!" He put a hand to the middle of the tree worked on the front of his tunic, laughing. "How was Dol Amroth? Have you any news that I should hear of?"  
  
"Positively boring. The only thing I enjoy there is the sea, and no one will let me out to swim this late in the year," she sighed. With a mischievous grin she added, "And Barahir still thinks I'm pretty enough to chase, if that's considered news."  
  
Faramir laughed. The son of Imrahil had been sweet on Aerwyn since they were children. "Well perhaps you have not yet heard, but our brother has some news of his own."  
  
"Where is Boromir?" his sister asked, pouring some spiced wine for herself from the crystal decanter on a side table, savoring the scent.  
  
"In Imaladris...or somewhere else. He was sent by their lord to aid on some quest, and we have had no word save that he rides with a company of nine on an errand of great import." Aerwyn took a sip from her glass and laughed dryly.  
  
"So like my brother to go off on a mission for Father and Gondor and not drag me along for the ride."  
  
"Well, it will please you then to know that he has done something uncharacteristic of him and gone and gotten himself engaged?" Faramir smiled at his sister, a roguish glint in his eye.  
  
"To whom?" Aerwyn turned to him, incredulous. "You know as well as I that Boromir would never marry. Voluntarily, at least." The Raven of Gondor had had the best teacher in the art of political policy, and knew her father was not above arranging a marriage for his eldest- Boromir needed an heir.  
  
Faramir opened the doors and pointed to a young woman dancing in the hall, her cheeks flushed and her black curls springing behind her as she whirled around. "The Lady Rhoswen."  
  
Aerwyn was dumbfounded. No, this could not be true. It had to be a jest on Faramir's part. Turning from the festive scene she goaded him. "She is but a child! How many years has she? Sixteen?"  
  
"You underestimate her- Three more than that. And our brother is completely smitten with her. Despite the fact that the match came by father's hand." Ahh, so the Steward did have a hand in this.  
  
But Faramir's unnervingly honest gaze jangled her nerves. Stubbornly holding onto the idea that he was still teasing, Aerwyn made to be more serious than he. "I will not see my brother married to a mere girl. She is too young for him, Fara, you should know that!" Her attention drifted back to the merriment.  
  
Faramir took her arm, a little harder than he meant to, and forced her to look at him. "She has two and ten years less than you sister, and near twenty less than Boro, this is true. But what she lacks in years she makes up for in wisdom and compassion. And she is as in love with Boromir as much as he is with her."  
  
"You sound as if you are in love with her as well," Airy spat. "If she truly loved our brother, she would not drive other men to their knees in adoration!" She looked at the young woman with disdain.  
  
"At least get to know her. She is not all what she seems." The ranger Captain sighed. "It is not every day in these dark times one sees the White Rose of Gondor smiling." Faramir smiled sadly and left his sister looking at the young woman with much annoyance.  
  
'White Rose of Gondor...who does she think she is? The daughter of a ruler in Anfalas has no right!' Aerwyn thought, watching Rhoswen. The Steward's daughter felt threatened. Had she been gone long enough from the City of Kings for this woman to have eclipsed her? If what Faramir said was true, would the soldiers' love for her be diminished? For so long Aerwyn's status as the Raven of Gondor had gone unchallenged. For so long, she had been the only woman in a standing of power that the citizens of Minas Tirith had looked to.  
  
Stepping from the side room, Aerwyn made to return to her father to ask him his opinion of this woman when she suddenly felt a hand taking hers and a pair of bearded lips kissing them. At her side was a guard of the city. "My lady, you've come home!" he cried.  
  
"Beregond!" she exclaimed delightedly. Before she could say anything else, he called to his fellow soldiers.  
  
"Hey there, lads! The Raven has returned!"  
  
Temporary pandemonium ensued as soldiers who had been drinking ale or dancing rushed toward her. Unceremonious whoops of joy nearly drowned out the music; Faramir laughed as the men under his command welcomed his long- missed sister home. Even Denethor was pleased that the men were happier now. One ranger was lucky enough to engage her in a dance. The midwinter festivities were even more jovial as the men celebrated the homecoming of their lady.  
  
'Their love for me diminished?' Aerwyn thought as the ranger Damrod lead her to the dance floor. 'May it never pass through my mind again!'  
  
---  
  
Aerwyn saw little of her brother's betrothed in the next week, and always when they did meet treated the youngest woman with the barest of familiarities, but what Faramir had said always seemed to fester in her heart's stiff unyielding corners. And more than ever, she found herself doing what she had promised not to-cause the hatred to grow.  
  
"Who is she?" Aerwyn spoke to her full-length mirror one morning while she looked over her gown. "Who is she, this woman who has stolen the heart of my brother, my city, and its soldiers? The Rose of Gondor." Aerwyn snorted in disgust. "How comes it that those who are not born of Gondor are given titles as to the ones bestowed upon her true children? I damn the day when I step aside for any man, let alone this so-called Rose."  
  
Whirling around to the stone wall, Aerwyn lifted her hands as if she were speaking to a large assembly. Raising her voice also, she shouted, "Who is she?! A child of Anfalas! Rose of Gondor, if you even be worthy to be called by that name, dare you challenge me?"  
  
The Raven's ruffled feathers calmed a bit as she lowered her arms. Her tone became low and dangerous. "It is with a great hesitancy or great fear that I give up my station, if I give it up at all," she growled. "And I have no such fear of you, Rose."  
  
For so long she had the honor of being the only woman of power the people of Gondor looked to. Since her mother had died, it had been Aerwyn who was woman of the house when she was of age. And now, with this mere girl usurping what post was hers by right of blood, Aerwyn felt a threat with the presence of this Rhoswen. She looked in her mirror, a cold glint to shatter glass in her eyes.  
  
"Roses may have thorns, but they are delicate, easy to break and succumb to winter's hard breath. And is it not the bird who wins when beings of both air and earth collide?"  
  
Later, when the sun had risen and was now at it's falling, Aerwyn was passing by the door to her eldest brother's room when she saw the door cracked open and the sound of weeping issuing forth. Opening the door a little more, she saw Rhoswen kneeling at the foot of Boromir's bed, holding one of his shirts in her hands, crying. As quietly as one can, Aerwyn nudged the door open enough to fit through and go to the weeping woman's side. She gently laid a hand on her shoulder, and the young woman looked up.  
  
"Why do you weep?" Her voice was a little bit friendlier than she had intended. Rhoswen's eyes met hers, and Aerwyn could see that what had been unveiled sorrow now turned to ice hard rage.  
  
"Why would you care for what I weep? I see that I disgust you." At the confused look on Aerwyn's face, she continued, not even attempting to blot her tears. "Think you these ears are mute? I have heard what accusations you've shouted to your chamber walls when you thought no earthly being could hear you. About how you think I've stolen your brother's love, your city's love, your place in the heart of the Tower Guard. About how I am a child, how Boromir should find another woman to love...about how the name so many call me by is not mine by right of birth and blood."  
  
The young woman's body shook with sobs, tears running down her cheeks like rain falls in a sudden storm, fast and furied and never seeming to cease. "I have not given it to myself! I am not as weak as you suppose! It was your brother, sainted woman, who gave me that name, your brother who placed me as the banner of your city, your brother who has given me such grievances as I have in these dark times, pains that I bear with a heart so close to breaking it is death to show such helplessness. It is in this that I must be strong, not for myself, but because Boromir would have it so! Find no error in me, madam, for it is your brother you must speak with on your objections. Boromir found no fault in me, and he has given you all your cause to do so."  
  
She drew in a ragged breath, giving Aerwyn time to formulate her own retort.  
  
"I have what is mine by right of blood- And the blood of this house will suffer no weakness in the women of her line." Rhoswen's eyes blazed, and she rose to her feet, her hand unclenching from the shirt and connecting with her verbal opponent's cheek. Aerwyn stumbled back, reeling with the force of the blow, a hand to her cheek; this rose was not as weak as her name assumed.  
  
"Give me no grief that you are perfect either, madam! It is pride that drives your hatred, pride that runs this family ragged, pride that give you weakness that you refuse to see because of it! Curse this Steward for giving his children such a bane as he himself does bear! You both are fortune's fools, for both shall meet a cursed end. Never will he bow a knee for anyone other than himself, and it is this that will be his doom! Now leave me in peace; this grief is mine, and no others! Leave me!"  
  
Aerwyn looked at the distressed young woman and left as quietly as she had come, shutting the door behind her and leaning against the door, the sounds of the bare, pained truth ringing in her ears like to the sting that comes when someone strikes one across the face.  
  
And so I damned myself to she who owns more right to honor than I, Aerwyn thought, musing over the sting on her cheek. The memory of Rhoswen's angry gaze passed through her mind's eye as the Raven ran to her own chambers, ashamed. 'I am no lady. If she has become the banner of my people, it is because I have forsaken the right, throwing it away with both hands because of my foolish pride.'  
  
Wow...what a rat out. I had no idea I could write something like that...reviews would be greatly appreciated. And kudos to whoever can tell me what line I adapted from 'Romeo and Juliet'! 


	7. It is not from me you need Forgiveness

I own Rhoswen…and none other. Aerwyn and some of this chapter courtesy of my fellow Gwathel Angoliel. I know I've said before that this story is primarily about Rhoswen, but Angoliel and I decided that Aerwyn's reaction to Rhoswen verbally and literally smacking her might be appreciated.

No flames, but constructive criticism would be nice.

* * *

Aerwyn sat in the gardens of Dol Amroth, strumming a harp absent- mindedly. The tune was sad and mournful, like a dirge. Perhaps it was the seemingly endless rain that inspired her tune, or perhaps the hopeless cause at hand. The Steward's daughter had been sent from her home again, only being allowed three weeks in the White City. Denethor had bade her to return to the City of Swans after Faramir had gone to defend Osgiliath. The struggle for Gondor's survival had begun, and the Ruling Steward had no desire that his beloved daughter be anywhere near the battles. Aerwyn went willingly, for her encounter with the White Rose had left bitterness in her heart, and despair.  
  
Her cousin Lothíriel found her lost in thought, the eyes of the Raven lifeless and cold as she played her lament. "What is this, cousin? Why do you play odes to lost warriors?" she asked.  
  
Aerwyn sighed. "Darkness comes, Fairy. By the time I return to my city, there will be many lost soldiers to mourn. Many of them friends," she replied, her eyes still hapless.  
  
Lothíriel would not be put off by her cousin. Not this time. "The coming of darkness has never thrust you into weeping, my dear Airy. Something is the matter, and I await your telling me of it."  
  
"I have right enough to weep, Lothíriel," Aerwyn stopped her playing mid note to look up at her cousin, her face clouded by irritation. "My brother is engaged." She looked forlornly at her lap.  
  
"What? Not Faramir!"  
  
"Nay, not he, but Boromir. I have not seen him, for he is in the north on a quest, else I would speak to him of this matter that disquiets me; I have met his bride-to be, and I do not like her."  
  
Aerwyn told Lothíriel everything, from the time she entered her father's halls to the time she departed. Her cousin sat quietly listening, never interrupting once. When the Raven finished, they were quiet for a time.  
  
"So, Rhoswen of Anfalas has grown up. I have not seen her for many years. Not since that summer you visited, when the Corsairs kidnapped me for the gold in my father's treasure houses. But has she changed? As I remember, the child was as silent as the grave," Lothiriel mused. "W hat is she like now? It seems, from what you have told me, that Boromir's absence is stretching her patience too thin."  
  
Aerwyn snorted, and began anew her distracted hands plucking strings. " Oh, she's silent still. In the four times I met her, I believe we exchanged a grand sum of twenty words. With the exception of our argument" The Raven scowled and shook her head. "She's lady-like and demure and refined, and her sewing is perfect."  
  
Lothíriel could almost taste the venom coming from her pained cousin-It flowed like Anduin. Airy was noble, but she had much pride. Her heart went out to her when her Gondorian kinswoman stifled a sob.  
  
"She's everything I'm not," Aerwyn pursed her lips, and closing her eyes, silver tears nesting in the corners. Ah! So that is what troubles her! The Raven of Gondor feared that her people would turn their loyalties to one who was more womanly; one who was especially loved by their Captain Heir enough to be given a title that showed it.  
  
Lothíriel took the harp from her cousin, who held it limply as she fought the passion of her grief. Setting the instrument aside, she wrapped her arms around her cousin, letting Airy's head rest on her shoulder. Gently rocking back and forth, Fairy cradled Aerwyn's head, stroking her hair.  
  
"Her temper matches yours - and that's saying quite a lot, Aerwyn. The only other I can think of with a rage so hungry is your father...and possibly Boromir." Lothíriel pulled back, lifting Aerwyn's head to meet her gaze; there was a bare and honest truth in the princess' gray eyes. "And what I see is a little girl's fear that she's going to lose her brother to another woman who may possibly be more important than her."  
  
Aerwyn's anger was not a thing that even Denethor could abide. But Lothíriel knew her cousin, and learned to have strength to stand against her when there was need - alone, if she had to. Fairy was not afraid of Aerwyn's wrath, and held her gaze for a time. Aerwyn's eyes were so dark they were near black. But the princess of Dol Amroth stood fast and did not cower. After a few moments, Aerwyn's rage turned to immense suffering and she put her head on her cousin's shoulder again, a torrent of tears wetting the silk of Lothíriel's gown.  
  
"Have I not worth also, Fairy? Has not my favor diminished with the people? I shall not be pushed to the shadows, damn it!"  
  
Lothíriel overlooked her cousin's use of profanity, as she often did. "No, Aerwyn. You have come to no lower standing in the eyes of your people. Rhoswen's coming should not be the cause of discord. The White Rose, as she is named, is not taking your place. She has become the banner of Gondor. Her make is sturdy and yet soft - enduring yet tender. There is room in her heart for grace. The people need a matron, and she is it, gathering the small children about her skirts to keep them safe. You, on the other hand, are steel. You are the sword, the weapon of Minas Tirith. You are strong, unbending and relentless. Vengeance rests in your heart, cousin. It has always been so."  
  
Aerwyn had by this time quieted. Her body still quaked from sobbing as she looked up at Lothíriel.  
  
"Am I never to love, then? Am I to live my life with a heart of ice? Swords are hungry for blood, and weapons maim. What has happened to me, Lothíriel? I have become a finely dressed assassin."  
  
Wiping her cousin's tears away, Fairy had pity. Aerwyn had just now realized the state of her unyielding heart. "Examine where your loyalties lay, love. Have you allegiance to yourself only?" Lothíriel paused, a soft smile creeping over her face. "Your love is fierce, Aerwyn-it brings to mind a pack of hounds out for the hunt, searching and relentless. Were you to marry, I pray to Elbereth that your husband is not weak."  
  
The lady of Gondor laughed a little, coming out of her deep sorrow a bit. "Fairy, you are good to me. I am sorry I give you so much abuse."  
  
"It is not from me that you need forgiveness, cousin."  
  
Aerwyn looked at her cousin, the look of a small child in her eyes as Lothíriel smiled enigmatically, drew up her skirts and went inside, peering at the sky.


	8. The sun does not shine for me anymore

The articles of the disclaiming- If I owned it, I wouldn't be here publishing it. Nuf said.  
  
Cryptic note to readers- you will have noticed that there is quite a large gap between the last chapter and this one, and a large gap between 3- 4...anyway, the point I'm trying to get across here is that in order to find out what happens to Boromir, you have to read -and review! I likes reviews- the other serious commitment fanfic I have posted, 'Journey through the dark'. That story follows my altered fellowship, and in which you will find out, oh curious reviewers who want answers, what the h*** happens to Boromir. *hinthintwinkwink*  
  
Also, before you start reading, I would like you to note some things as you read  
  
What seems weak What seems strong How I can improve What you really like.  
  
Any one of the criteria above would be most appreciated in your reviews. I went to a writing conference a little while ago, and these were some of the things the judges critiqued my piece on. I would be most obliged if you did the same.  
  
-*-*-*-*- 'The two small hands, that now are pressed  
  
In his, seem made to be caressed,  
  
They lie so warm and soft and still,  
  
Like birds half hidden in a nest,  
  
Trustful, and innocent of ill.  
  
And ah! he cannot believe his ears  
  
When her melodious voice he hears'  
  
Faramir looked at his future sister in law, standing at the window, hair blowing loose, gazing northeast. The ranger took a look out the window at the approaching clouds  
  
"A storm comes, milady. Please come in; you will only make yourself ill in the damp."  
  
"Ill? I am already ill, Faramir. I wake from sleep screaming in cold sweat; I burn with a fever. It ebbs, and comes back; I have no appetite, and what food I can keep down leaves me frail and weak. And not one healer can tell me of my malady. Some say child, but I know that not to be true; the child would have come by now, and you know well as any other in my confidence I bed no man save my betrothed, and only at his deepest wish."  
  
"Then please, I beg you, Rhoswen, come in ere you catch chill and make yourself in a worsened state." He paused; she did not move, still staring out the slit in the wall.  
  
"Where is he, Faramir? It has been eight months to the day since he rode out of those blasted gates for the elves' councils, and we have had neither word nor letter from him. He told me not what he rode for, and still he does not return!" She drew in a ragged breath-the breath of someone whose towers of hope are near to crumbling.  
  
"I fear I will die before he returns-if he ever returns at all. Nay, my brother, I will not abandon my watch." She was holding back tears, arms held closely knit against the encroaching cold, a shiver in her sickened frame at the cool winds. With a shake of his head at her obstinacy for leaving her sentinel, Faramir laid his tightly woven ranger's cloak about her shoulders.  
  
"Please, sister, I will have one of the guards send for you if he returns; get some sleep. You pine for Boromir, but I will make it known to you alone that he would not have you bring some injury to your person for his sake. That will be another body for the crypt keeper ere he returns if I were to tell him that his rose had succumbed to frost, that the carefully tended blossoms he kept so close to his carefully guarded heart had lost their beauty and departed this life. Nay sister, I cannot wound him in this way. You are the only woman for which the kiss of a greeting is like the lover's caressing hand on his cheek, for whom he would denounce all earthly pleasures to be with, for whom he would forfeit life itself, and I will not let that leave him." Rhoswen looked at him with a strained smile.  
  
"But where is he? Every day, I wish more than anything to see his golden head at those gates, to have one last treasured moment together before all that is good and green is lost to darkness, but the hour never comes. The sun no longer shines for me...or for anyone. Has the sun gone out? Has Mordor's shadow quenched it's flame? Boromir told me to be strong...but I cannot say how long my strength can yet endure!" She crumpled into a formidably sorrowful heap of tears, devotion, and velveteen folds. Faramir looked at her with a growing sadness, and gently picked up the sobbing young woman and carried her back to her room.  
  
Today was not the day when he should tell her that many thought the last great captain of Gondor dead.  
  
-*-*-*-  
  
Author's notes Flame Gemini-  
  
Thank you, oh blonde who sits across the table and obsesses over elves she can't have, you have read my work...FINALLY!  
  
Alainn- I really am honored! And thank you so much- I have a hard time plotting things,and like I said at the beginnng, I really do like reviews! Now go and read 'Journey'! sz2000- You are most welcome! Glad to be of service. And thanks for the feedback. And I'm flattered you are speechless about my writing. It's a gift from god. Klaw- I am so grateful you took precious time to do what I asked- there are too many people who don't- and I'm one of them, occasionally.  
  
Alexis Tinseth- thank you muchly! It's people who flat out say they love this that keep me going!  
  
Sofasoap- Go follow my instructions at the start of the chapter, and your questions will be answered. It is , as you may have guessed, mostly movie cannon- but I have read the books! Sean bean is just so hot....And I don't know..is this AU? * Ponders...*  
  
Orli's babe- have you recently considered applying for Boromir fangirlidom? Or changing your name to 'Boromir babe?'  
  
To all of you who left long reviews for ch. 5, I LOVE YOU VERY VERY MUCH! You people make my day so much more worthwhile. It's really nice to see that people think I really do not write crap. * And people actually read what I write!*  
  
So please, show me you actually read this. Thank yous muchly! And I apologize for the shortness...I'm running low on kindling for the story fire. 


	9. The White rose of Gondor

A note to a reviewer- PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF FAN FICTION, DO NOT KILL ME, LADY KNIGHT WHO WIELDS A TENNIS RACQUET! *cowers*  
  
Boromir- for the last time, people- DOES NOT-I repeat- DOES NOT, DIE! To find out how, you will have to read "Journey through the Dark".  
  
And on a side note, I don't own anything.  
  
On with the show...er, story!  
  
-*-*-*-*-*-*-  
  
Pippin followed Beregond's direction to the Lampwright's street, and saw there, amidst the graying stone and sober smiles that graced the rest of the city the smiles and laughter of children at play. They all stopped when they saw the tiny guard of the tower, and some began to whisper. Pippin removed his helm, and looked the boys in the eyes.  
  
"Tell me, if you will, is there one among you who can claim Beregond as father? I have been charged to find one Bergil, who will direct me about the city at his wont." One of the taller lads stepped forward.  
  
"That is I...but you are a stranger to the city, and I take no order from boys shorter my stature and my age. How many years have you?"  
  
"Twenty nine, so I think I pass you there." One of the boys examined him closely.  
  
"Are you the one they call the Prince of the Halflings? The steward's thain?"  
  
"I am that indeed."  
  
"Are the tales true? That you fought the wizard of the Isen vale and won?"  
  
"I heard you killed a whole company of Uruk hai!"  
  
"I heard he rode with the Lord Boromir!" The boys oh-ed and stepped closer, nearly reverent. Bergil looked at him, searching his eyes.  
  
"Are you truly as great a captain as they say? Lord Boromir takes only the finest for his troops, and to ride with him is a great honor bestowed to few."  
  
"Aye, I knew the Lord well; he taught me a few tricks with a blade, and a great many things besides. I was glad to count him as a friend." The boys' eyes grew wide. "But I should like to see more of the city before the cloak of night is upon us." Bergil nodded, and bid his friends good day.  
  
"My father would have me leave with the women and the other children, but it is a duty to Gondor to stay, and defend the city. Honor to my name must be upheld." The young boy squared his shoulders in defiance. "I will go not with women, and children. I am not a child. There was a time when I would have taken you to see the lady Lothíriel-but she has taken to Dol Amroth at the behest of her father." He thought for a moment. "But there is one woman still in the city...the lady Rhoswen."  
  
"Lord Boromir's intended, no?"  
  
"How do you know of her?"  
  
"He spoke often, and highly of her. So much that I think I can see her face now."  
  
"She is the one the men call the White Rose of Gondor. Some say her beauty is like that of the elves, that she is a great witch to ensnare the captain so easily. But I know better. She is a caring, beautiful woman, good at everything she sets hand and mind to, and I hope that my wife is as she, some far off day. She stays in the city because she thinks he will return...when last you saw him, did our captain heir still draw breath?" Pippin thought, taking heed to Gandalf's words.  
  
"He did, but that was many days ago, and I know not if he still walks this goodly earth. Would you take me to see the lady?" Bergil nodded, and strode purposefully off, Pippin running to keep up with the taller boy.  
  
Bergil motioned a finger to his lips in quiet veneration when they opened the gates to the gardens, mindful of the creaking hinges. A lady sat, a cloth on her knees, and Beregond's son hesitantly broke the thin ice of silence with a  
  
"Milady?" She spoke to the boy with a familiar tone; Bergil had come before.  
  
"Hello, Bergil...how is your father today?"  
  
"He is well, and sends greetings and hope that your illness does not return. He is loath to present a still heart to his lord upon his arrival."  
  
"As do many who know of my lord's love for me. He is a formidable man when presented with threat to my person."  
  
"Is it true that he slew a whole pack of wolves for you?"  
  
"As true as I sit before you, but that is a story for another time. Who is with you?"  
  
"I have brought a friend today, the prince out of the north country." He stepped aside, and Pippin looked up from his feet at the woman that his friend worshiped as 'the White Rose of Gondor'.  
  
Rhoswen was tall, for a woman, though sitting you could not tell it, and her inky raven hair fell around her shoulders like a curtain. The face that Boromir had remarked with a passion called to mind a sunrise now with coral lips in a half laughing line was slightly smiling, her gray eyes filled with sorrow well concealed. She dipped her head at Pippin's bow. Bergil smiled uncertainly, and left silently, sensing that Pippin and Rhoswen would want to talk alone. Rhoswen carefully laid aside her sewing, and looked at Pippin with intent, sage gray eyes.  
  
"So you are the Prince of halflings? If what they say in the city is true, than it is I who should be bowing, for they say that in your country you are a king among your people."  
  
"It is true, I am from a line that takes many days to say in full, for our fathers are of great interest in my land, and my family holds much land and many kin, but I am not the prince the gossip says I am."  
  
"You rode with the Lord Boromir...You have seen him of late?" Pippin thought of Gandalf's words-the White City must not know that Boromir lived! So, the Took did what he deemed best and worst--he fibbed.  
  
"If late is to be taken as three weeks upon today, at most, than yes, I have seen him 'of late'." The lady smiled.  
  
"Pardon me for seeming so forward, milady, but...you seem young to wed with the Lord Boromir; I know he has seen forty winters, maybe more, and you seem not over twenty. Forgive me again, madam, but I thought you were older, though you seem very wise for one so young." Rhoswen laughed-an open sound for such a strained time- and smiled even more broadly.  
  
"And this comes from one who looks to be not more than a boy- all in good faith, friend of my friend. Yes, it is true, the Lord Boromir be nearly twice my age, but he loves me, and I him, and I find no greater honor than to marry the son of the Steward. Tell me, Peregrin of the Halflings, does he think of me often?"  
  
"Yes milady, and every day he wishes he could be home, and, with all proper respect intended, in your arms. I listen where I should not; it is a habit of dire consequence." Rhoswen laughed at Pippin's blushing.  
  
"I care not what remarks you may have heard on the part of me, Peregrin- at home, he is not much better either- and his men hear things that make me blush. Our love will be one the harpers will sing of- if there be any time for songs when darkness passes this place." Her lighthearted face fell.  
  
"Pardon me again for being bold, milady, but would not Boromir wish that you go to the hills with the other women?"  
  
"I do not always listen to Boromir, and if he told me such a thing, I would pay him no heed. When he left, he told me not to lose strength, to stand firm such as the tower and it's women have always done. I hear the gossip in the streets, the word in the shadows- I have ears like you that pry where they should not- and I hear that the men lose hope with out my intended, the mightiest of mighty captains. It grieves me that many think him dead; I know that he is not- my heart tells me it is so, that it would be cleft in twain ere he breathes his last-and I stay because there are ears that say that when my heart fails, and love is the truest art of prophecy, then they will lose hope in a bottomless abyss, never to find it again."  
  
"I cannot give you news that he lives yet- but if I had such tidings, I would bring them straight to your ears as speed would permit. He still wore your stone, when last we parted." Rhoswen looked from her sewing.  
  
"That is good to know, Peregrin. I gave that to him to wear when we said our good byes in Osgiliath the last year passing, afore midsummer was upon us. Good it is to know that he keeps it by his heart- where I wish I could be at this very second." She looked into Pippin's eyes, and the sorrow was nearly blinding. Pippin almost had to look away- so beautiful, and yet so sad, this woman could make him say things that he would regret.  
  
"I must take my good byes, milady. I know not when my lord will call me, and sleep will be needed to face the days that are as yet dawnless. I wish you happiness and hope in this growing darkness if we do not meet again. Good night, milady."  
  
"Good night, Ernil I Pherinniath. For a new day, ere the sun rises." And she gathered her skirts, and wrapped the cloak tighter about her shoulders as Pippin eased the large door open, and shut it silently behind him.  
  
"Now I know why Boromir loves his white rose so: not the most hardy of plants, but the most beautiful, the one that the gardener worships in cultivating."  
  
-*-*-*-*-*- I'd like to thank the Academy...aww, screw them, I'd rather thank my reviewers!  
  
Terreis- I love to love and be loved. And yes, as I have been saying, the dead man will, alas for some, not be dead. * cheering erupts* and thank you for the thing about the AU...I'm not really grounded on all that fan fic jazz.  
  
DJ Sparkles- Thank you so very much! You people who love me make my day so much more worth living. And I love writing book cannon, as evidenced above.  
  
Sz2000- Thank you! Like I said, I love you who love me. And I'm glad you can see yourself in Minas Tirith.  
  
Jack Sparrow is my hamster- I'm sorry, but I have to say this. Every time I see your name, I crack up. That being over and done with, I love writing freaking amazing stories- I aim to please. It's nice to know there are people out there who read and love my work. I can now put a small flag in Scotland on my 'Countries reached by my work' map, subtitled 'My evil plan to take over the world'. *cracks up*  
  
Sir lady Alanna cooper- you probably read the note at the start of the chapter...* backs away slowly, cowering* send me not from your sight....I've only ever served you...  
  
Terreis- * looks amazed* I'm esteemed?...Wow...this is...um...rather un- humbling...is that even a word? I'm glad I can bring sunshine to your probably otherwise gray and dreary cubicle...may I recommend Christmas lights year round if you feel like bring different? I have some purple ones in mine. Granted, I get funny looks, but they look cool!  
  
Awww.... I wrote some of this for one of my friends, who is a huge pippin fan- Billy Boyd has an awesome voice, she'd like to reiteratate * tell us something we don't know*- and I had this thing running through my head for what seemed like forever, and I worked some more book cannon into it!  
  
And don't you just adore my rose allegories? Leave nice reviews and tell me if you found enough of them. 


	10. By the misten River Anduin

I own nothing. Dialogue and idea courtesy New Line Cinemas and Tolkien...whatever.  
  
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Faramir's men called him over as the captain of the Ithilien rangers made dead another servant of the dark lord.  
  
"Captain Faramir! There is something you should see."  
  
The ranger lead Faramir to a small copse of men, clustered around two small boys, one blond and the other dark haired. The blonde one spoke up, violently annoyed.  
  
"Wait! We're innocent travelers!" Faramir frowned.  
  
"There are no travelers in this land. Only servants of the Dark Tower." The dark one spoke.  
  
"We are bound to an errand of secrecy. Those that claim to oppose the enemy would do well not to hinder us." The young captain cocked an eyebrow.  
  
"The enemy?" he walked to the nearest dead man, not ten paces away, turned it over with his booted toe, and looked at the dead face with some disgust and thoughtfulness. "His sense of duty was no less than yours, I deem. You wonder what his name is, where he came from. And if he was really evil at heart. What lies or threats led him on this long march from home. If he would not rather have stayed there ... in peace. "He turned back to his men, signaling them to make for camp. "War will make corpses of us all. Bind their hands."  
  
Back at his headquarters at Henneth Annûn, Faramir examined his positions with his lieutenants. Pouring over a well-thumbed map, Madril informed the steward's son as to what intelligence reports he had received.  
  
"What news?"  
  
"Our scouts report Saruman has attacked Rohan. Théoden's people have fled to Helm's Deep. But we must look to our own borders. Faramir, Orcs are on the move. Sauron is marshalling an army. Easterlings and Southrons are passing through the Black Gate."  
  
"How many?" Madril sighed, a war weary sigh, the sigh of a man who is out manned and has given up what little fool's hope is left in such dark an hour.  
  
"Some thousands. More come every day." Faramir thought about this for a moment, and gestured to the map.  
  
"Who's covering the river to the north?" Madril sighed again.  
  
"We pulled 500 men at Osgiliath, but if the city is attacked, we won't hold it." Faramir traced the lines of countries on the map, his voice thoughtful.  
  
"Saruman attacks from Isengard, Sauron, from Mordor. The fight will come to men on both fronts. Gondor is weak. Sauron will strike us soon. And he will strike hard. He knows now we do not have the strength to repel him." Faramir looked at the map, and then at his cloak, draped over one of the barrels. On the inside, he knew, was embroidered a tiny white rose-the trademark of his sister in law.  
  
"Oh Rhos," he whispered to him self, "Why must this burden fall to me? What I would do that you could be here to comfort me and advise my ill at ease mind, sister." He sighed, remembering the tears on her face when he had left minas Tirith for Henneth Annûn at the rise of the last moon, and went to question the small ones.  
  
The two small men sat in one of the window on the west's many caves, looking around in biwilderment, having just been unblindfolded. Faramir took a seat on a barrel and looked each straight in the face.  
  
"My men tell me that you are Orc spies." The blonde was appalled.  
  
"Spies?! Now wait just a minute!"  
  
"Well if you're not spies, then who are you?" They did not seem to know how to answer this, and all three sat for a moment in apprehensive silence.  
  
"Speak." The dark haired one took a breath and began.  
  
"We are hobbits of the Shire. Frodo Baggins is my name and this is Samwise Gamgee." Faramir looked the blonde one over.  
  
"Your bodyguard?"  
  
"His gardener."  
  
"And where is your skulking friend? That gangrel creature. He had an ill- favoured look." Frodo hesitated.  
  
"There was no other." He continued on.  
  
"We set out from Rivendell with seven companions. One we lost in Mória. Two were my kin. A Dwarf there was also, and an Elf. And two men, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and Boromir of Gondor." Faramir looked intently at Frodo.  
  
"I wish you to tell me more of this, for what concerns Boromir concerns me. What was this sign of doom over which councils were held? Had you this thing in your keeping? You say that it is hidden, but is that some choice of yours?"  
  
"No choice of mine, sir. It was deemed in council that none save my company should know of it. And I cannot by right claim it as mine, for I have no claim to it. But if any should lay claim, the keeping would fall to Aragorn, son of Arathorn."  
  
"How so that Isildur's bane could go to, as you tell it, a ranger out of the north? What claim has he more than Boromir, prince of the city which Elendil's blood founded?"  
  
"Aragorn is directly descended from Elendil's blood himself, and he bears such tokens as show him such."  
  
"And what tokens are these? I know the high lore well enough myself to tell you if his claim is false."  
  
"A sword he bore, named Anduril, and a ring of silver, with emeralds and two snakes, one devouring the other." Faramir nodded. If this man truly did bear the sword of Elendil, the blade that was broken, and the ring that bore Barahir's name, then he could truly be the king come again. Frodo smiled sadly, reminiscing.  
  
"His claim was good enough for Boromir, at least. And if he were here, he would answer all the questions you could have to ask. When last I left him at Rauros seven days back, he intended to tarry no longer and essay on the quickest paths to your city. You would have his answers there, I deem." Faramir looked up at the mention of his brother's name sadly.  
  
"So, you bid me mind what affairs be mine, and see what tidings I may behold in my city. Boromir will tell all when he comes, so say you. You were a friend of Boromir?" Frodo looked confused.  
  
"Yes... for my part. He was a valiant member of our company. No better man may be found in any land upon middle earth, for he was both brave and strong of heart." Faramir stood, trying not to cry. How would he tell the heart that knew his brother best?  
  
"It will grieve you then, to learn that he is dead."  
  
"Dead? How? When? By what means? Since you have said, or so this I have heard, that your city had no wind of our company since you had left, how know you of his death?"  
  
"As one of his companions, I'd hoped you would tell me."  
  
"If something has happened to Boromir we would have you tell us! He was alive and strong when we parted, and he may still be so for what I could tell you. But there are perils far greater than orcs still in this world." Faramir turned around, picking up a box and peering at its contents. When he spoke, his voice sought to contain a breaking heart.  
  
"I would have you speak truth with me, but I have withheld from you. Boromir was my brother.  
  
Ere I arrived in Ithilien, as I kept my watches on the river with three of my men, I beheld a strange sight. It was early in the morning, and the river still held it's silken cold shroud of mist. Through such ghostly palls there came a boat, white and high prowed. In it, there was water, causing such eerie lights to issue forth in the lingering light of the moon so that the woman in the craft was crowned with a silvering glow. I waded into Anduin, and stopped the boat with my hand to behold what contents such a craft would carry closer.  
  
Her hair – like the godly sun in golden splendor, precariously fair to behold in full unveiled sight-was laid across a pillow of gray cloth, such as the elves weave, the like of which I have seen only once in my years. And her proud and valiant face bore no mask of deathless sleep. I cried aloud, Oh maiden fair! How should so radiant a flower fade in dark hours such as ours? What device gave you these wounds? Why should such beauty meet such an end as this? How came such loveliness by this end, such grace by this demise?  
  
She was arrayed in battle garb as the elves wear, no flowing cloth of whitened splendor, and I saw clasped in her hands no lily flowers nor shining steel of valiants, but a horn, fashioned of ivory and bound in gold. Oh Boromir, Boromir, faithful brother mine, I cried, thy horn lies in a maiden's hands! How came she by it, most prized on your possessions? Have you met such an end as this maid? Has Gondor's son been lost? And while I wept, I saw men line the shore, and never have such a sight brought battle hardened men to tears, to see such beauty lost to death's battle black cloak." Frodo gasped.  
  
"This boat washed upon the riverbank about six days past. I took the horn, and gave back to the dead such a sword as my men bear, as we thought it fitting that such a woman as this should have weapon in her hand. But more than this, I know it in my heart that Boromir is dead." He withdrew from the case he was holding the horn, and in the shaken light from the watery curtain of the waterfall it glowed with an eerie light.  
  
"And when next I go to the city, I shall bring these grave tidings to those he held dear- to my father, and to his...his betrothed."  
  
"You would let us go, then?"  
  
"Go? My dear hobbit, if that really be what you are, I fear that I cannot let you pass freely, for it is written in the laws of my father that those who travel upon these lands without the knowledge of my lord and father Denethor are to be killed. But since I deem you have something of great value for Gondor, my men will not kill you whilst I still draw breath. Rest well, hobbits of the shire, and sleep at peace. It is so ill gained in these dark days." Faramir laid the horn back in the case and left with it, leaving Sam and Frodo to ponder their fate.  
  
-*-*-*-*-*-*-  
  
Haha! More book verse! And I tied it in with the story...now I have to go back and update, but who cares? 


	11. Why must I Bear this Burden?

A drabble...albeit an angst-ridden drabble. Idea courtesy Roisin Dubh. And I don't own the characters...except perhaps Rhoswen.  
  
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Faramir lay awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling, attempting to fall asleep. But no respite from his thoughts came. With gentle fingers, he traced the spot on his face where Rhoswen had kissed him.  
  
What a kiss, he thought. Perhaps not for her-for her, twas only a kiss for a brother- but for me...for me, it was bliss.  
  
To many times he had held her as a brother should, and thought what rapture it was to hold such grace, such perfection of womanhood in his arms. And too many times had he cursed himself for loving what was not his to love. It hurt his brother's memory so, to covet the woman Boromir loved, Boromir worshiped, Boromir would die for. But what a woman...what beauty...what he would not do for her kisses again...  
  
Slowly, Faramir closed his eyes as sleep found him. But his dreams troubled more than conscious thought.  
  
It was early day, with rosy-fingered dawn peeking from behind her curtains of night, and Faramir felt the brush of a hand, carefully pushing a loose hair back from his face. He opened his eyes to see no stone walls of the cave that served as his office and quarters, but the carved eaves of his bed. And there was a woman drawing back the sleep tossed locks from his face, running chilled slim white fingers over the fine bones of his face, tracing his jaw. It was Rhoswen.  
  
"This is a dream."  
  
"Is not all life dreams, Faramir? Sleep...it is a good dream." How that white dress clung to rising curves and slim hips...Faramir tore his eyes from her hand to look out his window.  
  
"You should not be here." He spoke as though she were in his room, really touching him as though she loved him.  
  
"But I am not here."  
  
"And if you stay, I will only keep what feelings are harbored in my heart, and they will grow...and that will cause only pain, for you do not love me."  
  
"Ahh, but Faramir, you know not what secrets lie in my heart. Perhaps I do carry some black passion for the younger son in my soul."  
  
"You would have brought news of it to my ears, as one who keeps your heart has been away for long months."  
  
"Perhaps I doubt your intentions." Faramir looked at her, questioning. But his face changed to remorseful  
  
"My intentions are bad. I love you not...it is not true love that fuels my love...it is lust."  
  
"Then be lusty, Faramir." He could feel her breath on her cheek, nearly lost his breath as her body rested on his, fingers playing along the lacing of his vesture.  
  
"I have sworn oaths...vows I cannot break...vows to serve Gondor. And to hurt Boromir is to hurt Gondor grievously."  
  
"Then Boromir need never know." She whispered in his ear, sending waves of pained longing through his blood.  
  
"This is not Rhoswen. Leave me be!" And Rhoswen rose, and the dawn faded to blackness, black swirling mists of shades and shadows, and the woman was changed, her skin darkening, and eyes of glowing red. And she shrieked, an unearthly sound no woman born of the flesh of Númenor ever made, and the captain of Ithilien awoke in a cold sweat, breathing hard.  
  
Tomorrow he would go back to Osgiliath, and from there, back home, where he would tell Denethor, and then...Rhoswen. Why, why did it have to be him? Why did he have to tell her that the one whom she adored with her who longing, who he knew had slept with the rose of Gondor, fairest of the fair that he called sister with the longing to call lover?  
  
Why did he have to be the one to see her tears, for there would be many tears, and why did he have to watch her grief let her waste away, a fading flower of what she was in Boromir's arms. Faramir sadly remembered his brother. Always had he been the figure in his brother's shadow, and if he took Rhoswen for his wife, to cherish and hold till death should release them, then the shadow would haunt him the rest of his life.  
  
Faramir could see he wasn't going to get much more sleep this night, and decided to take the early watch. As he shrugged on well-worn trousers and a shirt, all of them still smelling somewhat of roses and perfume, he looked at the carven box that stood on his nightstand, half open.  
  
The horn of Gondor sat in velvet lining, glowing slightly. Faramir ran his hand over it, gently caressing the one thing that his brother had kept closer than anything.  
  
"Brother, where are you? What would you have me do in dark times such as these? Why should such burdens fall on my shoulders? You know I cannot bear the load alone."  
  
A single tear fell on the horn, and Faramir looked at the glistening speck and left rather quickly, closing the case with an informal clunk.  
  
-*-*-*-  
  
"Enter." Denethor's cold stony voice rang through the hall, echoing in commanding resonance. Faramir straightened his face, adjusted his cloak, and repositioned the box in his arms. This wasn't going to be easy. He pushed the door open with his free arm and strode in, rather quicker than what he would have wanted.  
  
What he wanted was to leave without telling his father. But someone had to do it. He knelt and kissed the octagonal ring of obsidian, a sign of his fealty.  
  
"What news do you bring me, Faramir? You face tells me it is not good news." Faramir swallowed; why did he have to be strong when he felt so weak?  
  
"Know, sir, that what news I bear to you I have cried my fair share of tears over, and have been given more sorrow over it than seems fair." Stifling a sob, he handed over the box and turned his face to the floor. Denethor opened the lid, looked at the contents, and for a moment held the room in strained and terse silence, broken by his distraught words.  
  
"Leave me! Leave me, I say!" His voice was violent, and the servants backed out of the room, fearful of their livid steward. His hard, cold eyes looked up at Faramir, still standing there, sorrow filled and pitiful.  
  
"Get out of my sight!" Faramir left with another longing glance at his father, and walked out, slow and silent.  
  
-*-*-*-  
  
The next day, Faramir awoke to the knocking of a fisted hand on his door, rather groggily saying  
  
"Come in." A manservant bearing a box entered, setting the box on the table and drawing the curtains, flooding the room with light.  
  
"His Lordship the Steward Denethor requires your presence this morning as he desires to hold council with you on matters of war." Faramir rose from bed, running a hand through his sleep tousled hair. Looking at the rose in the vase next to the box the servant had placed on the nightstand, Faramir broke down in racking sobs.  
  
"Why was it to me this task was appointed?" He thought to himself.  
  
-*-*-*-  
  
An hour later, after tears had been dried, clothes changed, and hair washed, Faramir made his way to the Hall of Kings to hold council with his father.  
  
He found his father at his chair at the head of the hall. Standing at his side, neither spoke to each other as the halfling knelt and swore his oaths to city and steward.  
  
"Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor. In peace or war, in living or dying, from..." he paused, forgetting the words. "From this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me." Denethor smiled slightly at the small hobbit, and rose from his chair, voicing the words ceremony dictated.  
  
"And I shall not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given." He held out his ring, and Pippin paused before kissing it, as a good thain should. Denethor continued. "Fealty with love, valor with honor," he cast a vehement look at his younger son as he went on, "disloyalty with vengeance." He bade Pippin rise, and sat down to eat the meal laid on the table. Turning his attentions to Faramir, he began to eat.  
  
"I do not think we should so lightly abandon the outer defenses, defenses that your brother long held intact." Faramir drew in a breath. Only a day had he since news of his son's demise, and already he brought him up without remorse. No tears the steward shed, no sign that he felt loss.  
  
"What would you have me do?"  
  
"I will not yield the river and Pelennor unfought. Osgiliath must be retaken." Faramir gawped.  
  
"My lord, Osgiliath is overrun. It cannot be done!"  
  
"Much must be risked in war. Is there a captain here who still has the courage to do his lord's will?"  
  
Faramir looked his father in the eye, never doubting what he would say.  
  
"You wish now that our places had been exchanged. That I had died and Boromir had lived."  
  
Denethor looked at his plate, reminiscing.  
  
"Yes, I wish that." Faramir swallowed, dismayed and now inexplicably hardened.  
  
"Since you are robbed of Boromir, I will do what I can in his stead." He began for the doors, and then turned on an afterthought. "If I should return, think better of me, father." And with that, he walked out the doors to his rooms to prepare for battle. Behind him, he heard his father say,  
  
"That will depend on the manner of your return." Faramir bowed his head to the ground, and continued to walk, his steps slow and his normally cheerful voice mute.  
  
Now to tell the one to whom he truly dreaded giving such pain...  
  
-*-*-  
  
Now we can go to chapter Nine! Big thanks to all who reviewed. I will repost with my nods. I'm sorry I keep inserting stuff...but Roisin thought I could use more development-thus, the angst ridden dreams. And a thanks to Eruanne, who's reviewed...all of my work with large helpings of flattery.  
  
See the easily ignored button in the corner there? Click it and tell me what you liked/didn't like/think I could use help on/ would like to see happen.  
  
Thanks! 


	12. Do you desire death then?

This chapter written by Angoliel, as Aerwyn is her character.  
  
Aerwyn property Angoliel, canonical characters property Tolkien estates and other various affiliated enterprises, et cetera, et cetera, I don't own it, blah, blah, blah...

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Aerwyn stood at the balcony of her chambers, looking over the city of Dol Amroth unhappily. Prince Imrahil, her uncle, had ordered the Swan Knights to prepare for departure and a journey to aid Minas Tirith. There was an air of concern, anxiety and some hopelessness in the City of Swans. Aerwyn's gray eyes looked out upon a people grim-faced and determined, yet fearful.

Sighing, the Raven of Gondor closed her eyes. She had been told to stay in the city to guard it with Barahir and Lothíriel, should her uncle fall in battle. The tide was coming, and Aerwyn felt as though she were sitting on a sand castle, waiting for the water to wash her away, along with all the work that she and her forbearers had done.

_What is the use of guarding something if there is no hope?_ She thought. _If the battle be lost, and the Dark Lord reigns, it would be better to die before he ascends. _

Aerwyn's thoughts turned to death. She had encountered it once before, when she was very young. Just before she turned sixteen, she had crossed over the threshold of death and had a vision of the afterlife. In the vision, she saw Finduilas. Aerwyn stifled a sob as she remembered what her mother looked like.

She was dressed in white silk that draped her slender frame so beautifully. Her face was like ivory, her hair soft and dark. Finduilas' eyes were such a lovely shade of blue. They were like sapphire storms that could see your soul and discern your thoughts. Aerwyn had never met her mother, but loved her as only a child could.

In the vision, Finduilas had denied her daughter the joy of spending eternity at her side. She was too young to be admitted to the Halls of Mandos at the time. Oh, how Aerwyn so wanted to go back, to be with her mother once more. Jumping at the feel of a soft touch on her shoulder, the daughter of Denethor turned to see Princess Lothíriel. "

The soldiers will be leaving tonight," her cousin said. Aerwyn did not answer. She turned back to the city in contemplation. After a few moments of silence, the Steward's daughter spoke. "

Fairy, what thinkest thou of death?" The question hung in the air.

"You desire it cousin, that you ask of it?"

"Aye. That I do." There was another long silence.

"Death may come without you going into battle, Aerwyn," Lothíriel whispered. "Why do you desire to die?" Aerwyn's tone was desperate, urgent and full of sorrow.

"Because I desire to walk with one whom I love more than any other. I want to see her again, Lothíriel. And I want to stay with her, this time. I want to go to her, and if death take me there, so be it." Her cousin's voice was thick with tears as Lothíriel embraced her. Aerwyn so desperately wanted to be in Finduilas' arms that she would do anything - even walk into certain death.

"Do I not have your love, Aerwyn? Are you not happy to be with me, your brothers, your father? And if the war is won, who knows if a suitor will come for you?" Lothíriel asked, her own tears threatening to overflow her eyes.

"I...I want to be what I should be, Fairy. I am a fighter...and yet I am commanded not to fight. If a warrior is not allowed to wage war, what use is he?" Lothíriel pursed her lips, embracing her cousin closer. The choice lay before her, though it was not asked of her. Pulling away, Lothíriel's eyes glittered with tears, but a determination lay behind the sorrow.

"You will not be useless, Aerwyn, daughter of Númenor. Though I grieve that I may not see you again, I will help you."

* * *

Lothíriel and Barahir bid their father farewell. Barahir had been told to guard the city, and protect the citizens who could not fight. His eyes were hard and bitter, for he would not go with his father into war, though much did he desire it. Lothíriel embraced Imrahil before he mounted his horse. Her heart grew anxious when he looked behind them.

"Where is your cousin?" he asked.

"She is angry, Father; angry and afraid of the outcome of the battle. She rests in her room, and will not come out," Lothíriel said quickly. It was the first time she had ever lied in her life.

Imrahil's eyes grew sad. "I am loath to leave her here. I know that she desires to fight. But it is my duty to protect her as well. Give her my love, daughter," he said. To his men, he shouted, "To Gondor!"

The Prince of Dol Amroth urged his horse on, and the column of men behind him kicked their steeds into action. After a few moments, a soldier passed by Lothíriel and raised a gloved hand to his lips. The princess did the same, and Barahir looked at his sister, who looked after the soldier.

"Have you a secret love I know not about," he asked.

"Bid farewell to an able warrior, brother," Lothíriel said. The soldier was still looking at her, the gray eyes pouring thanks upon her. "She fights for freedom under the banner of the Swan." Barahir's eyes widened and he searched for the soldier, only now understanding.

"No..." he whispered. "I should have gone instead. She will not come back from that battle!" His frightened eyes looked at his sister, and then back at the body of his cousin, riding into the battle to end all battles.

"You underestimate her, Barahir. She a woman, but far more brave than some. Yet pray to the Valar for our victory."

* * *

As the knights rode into the White City, singing as they came, Aerwyn looked up to the battlements to see Rhoswen, her dress flapping round her legs in the wind, Denethor at her side. _But Boromir is still gone_...she thought to her self as she raised her spear in salute to her father, turning her eyes away as Rhoswen caught her gaze. _What now becomes of Gondor without him, mightiest of mighty captains?  
_

* * *

Erm...shout outs...none to speak of, since this comes in media res...in the middle of things.

BIG, BIG, BIG THANKS to Angoliel, who wrote all of this except for the last paragraph.

Also, big thanks to all of you who are reviewing!


	13. The sun does not shine for me anymore

Boromir- for the last time, people- DOES NOT-I repeat- DOES NOT, DIE! To find out how, you will have to read "Journey through the Dark".  
  
And on a side note, I don't own anything...heheh? _Smiles unsurely as Tolkien's ghost stares her down.  
_  
This chapter takes place after Faramir and the rangers have retreated from Osgiliath, and he's had his chat with Pippin when he got back to the city.  
  
On with the show...er, story!  
  
-------  
  
Rhoswen looked out her window, half hoping to see sun. But no ray of light or hope graced the ivory towers today- not a single speck. At the crack in her door, she heard the familiar sound of Faramir's boots on the stone floor, but his stride today was heavy, else Rhoswen would not have noticed. She got up from her vain window watching and opened the door, only to see Faramir's retreating back. His shoulders were slumped, and today he wasn't whistling. Rhoswen looked at him with growing pain, and half ran to catch up to him.  
  
When she did, he was leaning against his door, as if some spasmodic pain had hit his lower stomach.  
  
"Faramir? Be you ill?" The ranger shook his head, a hand to his forehead, eyes tightly closed. He seemed to recover, enough to open the door, at least, and led his sister in law inside. The steward's second son sank into a chair, face still grimacing, and Rhoswen poured him a glass of the light wine he kept in his apartments.  
  
"No, Rhos. It is my brother who drowns himself in his wine when he has problems. I simply make myself sick."  
  
"Please, dear brother, I beg you, do not." She paused, and looked at the crystal goblet in her hands. "You have not yet told me why you are feeling ill."  
  
"Forgive me, sister."  
  
"It needs not merit forgiveness."  
  
"Father would have me ride back to Osgiliath, and retake the city." Rhoswen gasped.  
  
"Even I know it cannot be done. Boromir would think it folly." At this, Faramir shook, and put his head in his hands, weeping.  
  
"Rhoswen, I had not the heart to tell you..." He beckoned in a servant, took the box in the bondsman's arms, and opened it to the lady. She looked at the box's contents, and clenched her throat, tears welling in her eyes.  
  
"Tell me it is not so!"  
  
"I cannot lie to you. They have...had news that he is dead." The fair haired man said to her, and she collapsed into his arms, crying. The glass in her hands crashed to the floor, splintering into shards, the wine looking like a pool of blood.  
  
Faramir knelt at her side and held her close, looking at the hysterical woman in his arms. His brother's fiancé was not taking the news of his death well. The slight, tall woman in his brotherly embrace was crying uncontrollably, the tears raining on his shirt a sign of the intense devotion she had for the man he called brother.  
  
"D-d-dead?" Faramir nodded, his hands wet with Rhoswen's tears. Rhoswen knelt on the floor, looking forlorn.  
  
"Faramir- I...I...I have something your ears need hear." He swallowed nervously, and Rhoswen looked up, eyes red and bleary with crying. "Before Boromir left...he had said it was his wish that I should marry you in his stead. I think it unwise to not have asked you first, but...he was loath to bring the matter up with his father." Faramir looked at her, and with a sad smile, pulled her into his chest, still struggling to hold back tears.  
  
-----  
  
As Rhoswen stood on the ramparts to the city, watching the men from Lamedon, Lebannin, and even her homeland, the Langstrand, march solemnly into the city, she had to will herself not to weep. _So much death_, she thought silently as the soldiers of her father's house touched their spears to their helms in a salute to her, the daughter of their lord, _so much unthinking death. They all look at me with the same glint in their eyes, the same desire to prove to me, though it matters not, that they are worthy of some non-existent glory_. _Oh gallantry, thou art a cruel master, though you play outside to be pure and just.  
_  
The lord Denethor came to stand by her, his robes whipping in the wind, the Prince Imrahil arrived, leading his Knights with the blue banner of the Swan ship whipping with the wind. He raised his sword in salute to the Steward, and Denethor raised a hand, acknowledging his brother in law. The knights raised up a cheer, all of them lifting spears to the Lady who stood by the steward. But as one passed, Rhoswen could see that the hair streaming from the helmet was pure raven black, issuing forth in almost womanly curls. And the eyes beneath the helmet seemed oddly familiar, burning with singular, fierce flame.  
  
And for Rhoswen, the eyes turned away when they caught the Rose's gaze, as if afraid to see that their bearer had stared at the betrothed to the Steward's first born son.

------  
The next day, Rhoswen rushed to the gates to the seventh level to see Faramir being brought up the steps in a litter, the only one of two hundred cavalry to come back alive- and he was barely just. The Swan Knights who bore his bier stepped back for the distraught woman, allowing her to kneel next to the body of Faramir. The young woman looked at the arrows in his body, the half parted lips, and ran light fingers over the shock of bright crimson blood beneath his fair hair, and broke down crying next to his body. A maid placed a hand on her shoulder, hoping to comfort the woman.  
  
"Why is it that all of this family should perish? What device has heaven set against them?" Rhoswen lamented, the tears falling on Faramir's armor as rain falls upon tainted ground, hoping beyond hope to renew what cannot be brought back to lush greenery and full life.  
  
The Steward came out, robes flapping, and he too, broke, crying tears for the son he pretended not to love.  
  
"Faramir! Say not that he has fallen!" The Prince of Dol Amroth spoke, his voice a grave thunder.  
  
"They were outnumbered. None survived."  
  
"My sons are spent!" Pippin ran up, followed closely by Gandalf, and both looked at the half dead body of the steward's second born with remorse. Gandalf leaned close to Pippin, conferencing whisperedly. In front of them, Denethor was still weeping over his son's body.  
  
"My line his ended!" Pippin fixed his eyes on Rhoswen, kneeling, head in her hands, and then at the body on the ground, watching as ever so slightly, Faramir's chest rose and fell with the steady tides of breath.  
  
"He is alive!" Denethor paid him no heed.  
  
"The house of the Stewards has failed!" Rhoswen looked at Pippin, and in her once strong eyes Pippin saw the crumble of strength. The young woman ran inside, and he looked back at Denethor.  
  
"He needs medicine, my Lord!"  
  
"My line has ended!" The steward half blindly looked over the walls at the advancing tide of Mordor. He said nothing.  
  
"My Lord!" When the steward spoke, he voice was dissevered from his body, not paying attention to what he said.  
  
"Rohan has deserted us." There was a rising wave of anger in his voice. "Théoden has betrayed me! Abandon your posts! Flee! Flee for your lives!" Gandalf smacked the steward with his staff, and the elderly man crumpled, unconscious.  
  
"Prepare for battle!" The men looked at him, and Rhoswen ran out, holding the white horn in her hands tightly. With red eyes and a scowl, she looked ready to kill the first person that stood in her way.  
  
"You heard him! Defend this city with your lives and your honor, as the Lord Faramir has done! Now get back to your posts!" The men, gaping at the normally demure and quiet woman, scampered back to the defenses. Rhoswen still stood, fists clenched, and looked at the sky.  
  
"You've taken Boromir from me, Ring giver. Must you take Faramir too?" There was a wind from the east, and Rhoswen could have sworn she heard a whispered  
  
"Yessssss..." floating on with it. She raised a fist to the sky.  
  
"Rhoswen Nerys-daughter it is who curses you, Sauron the Deceiver!" And she decisively raised the horn to her lips and blew, the sound echoing over the city.  
  
It was said by some that at that moment, an ominous chuckle resonated through the black gates.  
  
------  
  
Wow...can you believe I actually cried while writing this?  
  
And before you yell at me for violating the F/E pairing, I tell thee, good people that it is not as it seems. Like I mentioned at the beginning, BOROMIR IS NOT DEAD!  
  
Roisin Dubh- your name means rose something, right? Anywho-thanks for the REALLY long review and the emails. I'm glad that you like this piece, and I hope that in future chapters we can share characters. HOPEFULLY. Key word there-hope. A Question, If You Will-who's Red Sonja? Oh, and you're not the first person who's thought that the actions and dialogue are a little...strangely formatted. I just have this vision in my head, and it all makes sense there. Sorry!  
  
OHOHOH-question to the presses- I am polling as to when it is most convenient for you-the readers- for me to post. When do you read, and when would it be nice to get updates?  
  
And if you please, ladies and gentlemen, leave a review. Did you get any strong emotions? Did you like/ dislike something? It's very good moral support, and it helps me improve.


	14. I have learnt humility

I don't own any of the characters any of the general public recognizes from JRR Tolkien's bestseller books, ' The Lord of the Rings.' In fact, Tolkien would probably turn over in his grave if he knew what I was doing to his characters.  
  
What happens before the chapter is this-  
  
He (Boromir) has been fighting on the Pelennor for the last Eru-Knows-How- Many-hours, and now he's come inside to change clothes, have a meeting with Aragorn, Gimli, Eomer, Gandalf, Imrahil, and the rest of the captains of the west, eat something, arm up, and then ride out again. This happens after the meeting of the Captains of the West.

* * *

Boromir emerged from the great hall a little graver than when he had entered, treading the worn flagstones back to his rooms with a heavy heart. How was he to tell Rhoswen of this? She was so happy that after nearly a year he was back, and now he had to leave again, and this time, probably for good.  
  
When he wearily pushed open the heavy door, it was not to his surprise that he found his wife to be sitting in his chair, wringing her hands. She nearly jumped to her feet and ran to embrace the High warden of the Tower, her small hands cold and her voice much older than when he had last seen her.  
  
"Why must love be so cruel? They tell me you are to be taken from me once again."  
  
"I must go; the king commands it." Boromir held her at arms length, surveying the woman with a critical eye. Rhoswen's pleas only increased in their beseeching nature.  
  
"But already I have waited ages. Can he not stay this campaign a night, that we might be wed before I age another hour?"  
  
"War does make elders of us all. What happened to the beautiful girl I left in Gondor a year ago? She's been replaced by a mature young woman."  
  
"You find me ugly?" Rhoswen seemed saddened by this prospect.  
  
"Never, my rose. I take it you still find me handsome as ever?"  
  
"Absence makes my heart only long more for you. But my grave is like to be my wedding bed if you should not return."  
  
"It is for Gondor-" Boromir began, but Rhoswen cut him off.  
  
"Gondor! I care no longer for Gondor! Once there was a time when I would have gladly given you for Gondor and her whims, but now...now I need you. It is selfish and it is vain, but it is true." The Rose broke her sorrowed veil and began to cry copiously into Boromir's chest, her sobs accompanied by the gentle rocking back and forth by Boromir, and the soft whispers of reassurance in her ear.  
  
"I wish to all the gods in heaven this moment could last a lifetime," thought Boromir with a sad look, his hands wrapped around this woman he loved so much, wanted to protect from everything, and yet found himself failing miserably at both.  
  
"Go...Go forth, Captain, and do your duty. Gon...Gondor calls." Rhoswen stepped back from her lover's arms and looked away, willing herself not to cry any longer. Boromir's eyes pleaded with her.  
  
"Will we not part on happy terms?" Boromir thought aloud for a moment, and then pulled his fiancée into a kiss, one that the White Rose would not forget for quite a while. So much passion, so much longing, so much desire to go to duty and yet to shirk, to heed and to ignore, to run or to sleep.  
  
"You only make my pain greater with each passing moment. Go now, before this grief overcomes me." Rhoswen looked at him one last time, and left, running down the hall in tears. As Boromir watched her go, he turned aside as well and wept.  
  
Why must he do these things? Why did Love have to be the arrow that shoots Beauty down, the spear that killed Bliss on the threshold of Marriage?

* * *

Thank you all for reading and reviewing...it really means a lot to me.  
  
Sailor Taichichi Vegeta- Thank you. sniffles and takes lace hanky I got applause....lots and lots of applause. And thanks for reading the rest of my work; like I said, I do appreciate it. Would this comic you speak of be 'Revolutionary Girl Utena'? I think I've heard of it.  
  
Roisin Dubh- I thought I'd lost you, there. And thankies muchly for the suggestion; that chapter is undergoing editing as we type.  
  
Sz2000- Don't worry, I have lots of tests coming too. DARN YOU, END OF THE SCHOOL YEAR!  
  
Dread Lady Freya- Once again, a review that made me laugh- and I've needed more of those lately. Please grant my computer and I sanctuary before your bunnies cover the face of the earth in fluffy evilness. And thank you for the offer-I'll come often. All I need is occasional alone time with Boromir- preferably MY Boromir, but whatever works for you. ;)  
  
Angoliel- BIG HUG! You put up with my massive hordes of e-mails and come back for more... 


	15. Who is the Healer here?

Disclaimer- I don't own it...WHY MUST LIFE BE SO CRUEL?

* * *

Rhoswen looked at the closed door of her room, pacing.  
  
"We must help them." She said, gazing at the arrow slit, her voice sounding lost and small. Aerwyn looked at her in fear-Was her brother's betrothed mad?  
  
"I have already lost both brothers to this war...I will not lose my sister for the sake of Gondor's men! You heard my uncle; Please, do not venture from this place...There is only death beyond those doors." Aerwyn pleaded with the younger woman, who looked at her, half disgusted.  
  
"I had thought that the Raven of Gondor would not be so adverse to a good fight! No, she is content to sit and be slaughtered in her chambers while her city burns around her! I will not stand by and watch men die when I can do something."  
  
Aerwyn, who had been looking out the window, turned to her, snarling.  
  
"You do not realize, I think, what you desire to walk into. Do you know what war brings? Perhaps I shall explain! When you are attacked, your instinct tells you to fight back But when you feel your sword bit the soft flesh of your enemy. When you feel it penetrate into his being. When you watch him slide off your blade, then you will know what it means to take a life. There will be bodies of men strewn in the streets-some will be missing an arm, others will be in pools of blood, still others will be headless, even."  
  
"I care not!" cried Rhoswen, resisting the urge to retch.  
  
"It is gruesome, this business of battling." Airy finished, her face smug at the hastily hidden revulsion on Rhoswen's face. But the younger woman's resolve stiffened, and she snarled back.  
  
"I know what lies beyond that door-DEATH, and nothing more! And if I should die, then so be it! I've lost everything else in this war....if Darkness is to rule, let him rule my grave...Now let me go." Rhoswen looked at her dangerously, that certain fire of passionate fervor in her eyes.  
  
Aerwyn blinked. That fire in her eyes, so dangerous, so passionate for her people...the same fire that had once burned in her eyes.  
  
"That used to be me," Airy thought. "The reality of death has put out my flame. How then am I to rekindle that which has lost it's light?" Immediately, she knew.  
  
"You will not go alone, Rhoswen. I would not send you out to the city without protection. Let me be your guard."  
  
Rhoswen smiled, her anger falling away. "At last, my sister sees sense."  
  
Putting on her helmet, Aerwyn shook her head. "Sense is no longer existent. All I see a girl who cannot defend herself."  
  
Rhoswen tied her hair back, and gathered her skirts. Aerwyn loosened her sword and strode alongside her sister to be. How stark the difference between them was, how plain the lines that separated them! The one wore the gown of womanhood, proper and beautiful; the other, fitted in the bright armor of war, cold and wielding unforgiving steel-one cold, the other warm, one life, the other death.  
  
Making for the houses of healing, the two women nearly passed out from the burning stench of flesh, wood, and blood. Raising a gauntleted hand, Aerwyn hailed a healer. "Beleg!" she cried.  
  
The tired looking man looked up from the wound he was binding at her voice, and strode over after knotting the bandage. He put a bloodied hand to his chest, bowing.  
  
"My lady," he said, wiping his eyes. "Tell me not that you need my services."  
  
"Nay, good friend. I have no wound. But the Lady Rhoswen and I seek to bring the wounded from the city. Will you come with us?" Aerwyn asked.  
  
"I would, lady. Let me tell the warden I have gone, and then we shall be off."  
  
Aerwyn nodded, turning to Rhoswen. "Steel your heart, Rhoswen. The sights you are bound to see are sure to break your heart."  
  
"My heart is already broken, sister....a few more cracks cannot hurt it." The younger woman said, adamantly trying not to cry at the memory she called up. Aerwyn laid a hand gently on her shoulder, and they shared a silent moment before Beleg returned, fastening the brooch of his cloak.  
  
Rhos picked up the satchel next to him, shouldering the bag. Passing into the circle where there were skirmishes, Aerwyn grimly turned to her companions. "Be quick, if you can. The enemy pushes us farther back with every step we take."  
  
Rhos and Beleg nodded, and spying a fallen soldier, they rushed over just as an orc strode up. It bent over, with a mind to tear the soldier's throat out.  
  
Airy strode over, running the orc cleanly through, and shoving the corpse over before it fell on the helpless man. She looked at the fallen man, who had an arrow in his thigh. Aerwyn pursed her lips. "He won't make it to the Houses."  
  
Beleg appraised the man's condition, his voice dismal. "The arrow has shattered the bone; even if he did make it...there is nothing anyone can do for him." Beleg shook his head. "We can do nothing for this one." He looked at the dying soldier. "I am sorry."  
  
Rhos knelt down beside him, wiping a stray hair aside and uncorking the wineskin at her side.  
  
"Drink," she said, raising it to his lips, "You've earned it."  
  
The soldier weakly shook his head. "Don't waste your time on me. There are others who need your help."  
  
"You have fought well, son of Gondor-be proud for it." Rhos said with a smile, and the man's lips tried to rearrange themselves in a smile. She clasped his hand, and there Aerwyn watched as Rhoswen held the dying man's hand until with one last rattling breath, he let his spirit go.  
  
Rhoswen got up, and looked at her sister. "If they die, at least let it be with honor...and without further pain."  
  
Suddenly a wail pierced the air, and Aerwyn looked up, fear written over her face. She threw her sister to the ground as a giant beast flew overhead, its wail piercing and shrill.  
  
"Black riders," she said breathlessly.  
  
"Nazgul!" An echoed shout from far away was heard. A few soldiers on the wall were taken up in the beast's claws, carried away a while before they were mercilessly dropped, Rhoswen wincing at their falling screams.  
  
When it passed, Aerwyn stood. "Come, there are others that may yet have time."  
  
Rhoswen and Beleg rushed over to soldiers gasping for a healer, Aerwyn hovering behind them like a vengeful ghost. The sharp gray eyes of the Númenorean made sure that the dying were not tormented, and the healers were given protection. Some they saved...others were not so fortunate, but all were reminded before the end that they had served their country well.  
  
Once Aerwyn was nearly shoved aside; the armored maiden did not take kindly to being greeted so.  
  
"Take care, Val, and step light! The dying litter this street!" she snarled at him, tired and weary.  
  
The man nearly tripped on the dead man behind him. "Aerwyn?" he asked, question in his eyes.  
  
Beleg looked up. Val and he had been friends since children. Now, in the days of war, he helped to preserve life, while his friend sought to take it.  
  
"Valar preserve us...I thought when the reserves said there was a Valkyrie waiting to take any orc that got up this far that they were mad with the battle heat! Now I see they weren't joking...you looked ready to run me through." Val said jokingly.  
  
Aerwyn smiled wryly. "I grow weary of my countrymen dying. But tell me, why doest thou run from the battle? Tell me not that they advance!"  
  
Val nodded hopelessly, and her look became concerned. "How far away are they now?" she asked, her voice ringing with worry.  
  
An arrow whizzed by Val's head. "Not too far!" he cried.  
  
Aerwyn's eyes grew wide. "Rhoswen, hurry! Go back! Go back!"  
  
Rhoswen shook her head. "There is nothing there for me!"  
  
Aerwyn turned, her eyes smoldering, threatening to burn with the same fire Rhoswen had. "You'll go if I say!" she growled. Rhoswen looked to rebel, but Beleg laid a hand on her shoulder, and Rhoswen slumped.  
  
"So be it." she said, her voice defeated.  
  
Roughly, Aerwyn took Rhoswen's arm just as another arrow sped by. Shoving the younger woman in front, Aerwyn ran, calling Val and Beleg to follow. The young woman had just enough time to pick up her now stained skirts and run behind her war-goddess of a sister. Soldiers joined them, surrounding them. The gate to the fourth circle clanged shut behind them.  
  
One soldier looked closer at the healers and their escort, and his eyes widened. When the shock of the retreat had disappeared, the soldiers spoke among themselves of the healers. Whispers flickered through their crowded ranks, and some pressed closer to have a better look at the Raven and Rose of Gondor.  
  
The men were weary. There was a lifelessness in their gaze. It made Aerwyn shiver. They looked as though they were already defeated. "Where is their courage?" she said, half to herself. "Have they already given up?"  
  
"Men of Gondor, the battle is not yet lost, yet you look as though Sauron's chains already oppress you!"  
  
Removing her helmet, she held it at her hip. Those closest enough to see grew wide-eyed. Her hair issued forth in it's raven streams, making her look even more the Death Maiden that bards oft told of.  
  
Aerwyn climbed upon the front porch of an abandoned house. "Soldiers of Gondor, hearken to me! I see your weariness. I know what it is to be disheartened! I know you are wounded, broken, and bleeding. I know your hope is shattered, and all good and green things lost to memory. But let not the enemy think that it will be an easy conquest! We are of Númenor, of Gondor...and the race of Men does not give in with out a fight!" She gazed around at the men; in some of their eyes she saw the stirring of courage.  
  
"Defend the city! Defend this gate! Pour forth all your honor. All your power. All your bravery!"  
  
"Look there!" She pointed at Rhoswen. "Look upon her fair face! It is this that you must fight for; Remember your women, who are in Lebennin! They wait, and wonder. 'Will there be a city for me to come home to? Remember your children! It is for them...the future of this city, that you must now hold your ground." Her eyes narrowed, becoming dark, death bringing slits.  
  
"Let these streets run with black blood."  
  
Aerwyn's voice escalated as she became more and more convicted with her intense speech. Rhoswen saw that she believed this with every fiber of her being. "Just like her brother..." Rhoswen thought with a sad smile. Now all the memories of Osgiliath came flooding back, of Boromir, so proud, so strong, standing on that rampart with that flag, shouting, as his sister was now, that they would triumph.  
  
"If this is to our end, then make it such an end as will be sung for the AGES! Are you with me, Men of Gondor?" she raised her sword.  
  
Their shout was deafening and Aerwyn smiled coldly. Any orc who dared pass the third level would get a good taste of Gondorian steel.  
  
"For Gondor!" she cried.  
  
"FOR GONDOR!" they cried back, voices loud and proud and full of long forgotten courage.  
  
Leaping off the front step, Aerwyn returned to Rhoswen and Beleg, sudden weariness taking hold. The sound of hooves on cobblestone drew their attention.  
  
"Gandalf!" Beleg hailed the wizard.  
  
The two women nodded at the old man dressed in white. He acknowledged them, and dismounted, swinging the halfling from his seat behind him. The little man looked around, spotting the women. His eyes lingered on Rhoswen, turning to fear.  
  
"Lady? Should you be here?"  
  
Rhoswen could only smile. "Is there anywhere else for me to be, Peregrin? My place is with my people...not hidden away."  
  
Aerwyn smirked, taking a deep breath. She had been told about this little one who had been named Prince of Halflings. He caught Aerwyn's eye and they spoke with each other with a gaze only, it seemed. She smiled a little-this Prince of Halflings would serve the city very well.  
  
"Lady Rhoswen...I would ask you please get back to the seventh level...there is nothing you can do here." Gandalf said.  
  
A distant shout brought on the wind made Aerwyn close her eyes and stifle a sob. "Corsairs! The Corsairs have come!" The city was lost. The doom of defeat had come.  
  
Rhoswen made to protest, but her sister glared at her again, and Rhos conceded defeat, trudging back through the city to the top of the citadel. Looking back, Rhoswen saw her sister casting a last look upon the soldiers she would never see again. Reluctantly, she too headed back to the safety of the seventh circle  
  
The sound of splintering wood made them all spin around. "They've broken through," Beleg whispered.  
  
Cries of both men and orcs mingled, the snarls of brutality heard above all. Aerwyn drew her sword again. Footsteps could be heard. "Run!" she cried above the shattering of the city walls.  
  
Orcish battle cries came closer, and the clattering of drawing swords echoed off the stone walls. As she gestured with her sword, herding the soldiers up to higher ground, an arrow from the advancing rank flew by, striking the Raven in the shoulder, near the junction of her shoulder pauldrons and breastplate.  
  
Rhoswen turned just in time to see her fall, crying out in pain. Disregarding reason and her sister's wishes for her to retreat to the top tier of the city, Rhoswen rushed back into the battle fray.  
  
Aerwyn's sword clattered to the ground as she reached for the arrow. The arrowhead had gone through her shoulder, and the ugly feathered shaft protruded from behind. By the time she had reached her fallen friend, a huge orc stood over her, an evil looking claw of a sword clutched in it's stained fingers. Aerwyn looked up, breathing heavily.  
  
Rhoswen looked around for something to draw the beast's attention away, settling on the nearest dropped weapon, a spear. She yelled at the creature, who turned with a troll-stupid look at the sound. Rhoswen jabbed, launching her fury at the world into the point.  
  
After it had fallen with a grunt and a groan, Rhoswen looked at the spear in her hands, not believing what she had just done, letting the spear fall to the street.  
  
Aerwyn, who had thought to knock the legs from under the orc, looked up at Rhoswen. "You make...a good warrior," she panted. Rhoswen pulled her up, leaning her against the wall.  
  
"We have to get you to the houses...quickly."  
  
Aerwyn shook her head. "Not with this thorn in my flesh. Break off the arrowhead." Gritting her teeth Aerwyn tried to steady her breath. Rhoswen bit her lip, and with a wrench, broke off the point; Airy held back a cry.  
  
"Now...pull the shaft from my back."  
  
Rhoswen was close to tears, Airy gritting her teeth. The younger woman hesitated, and Airy's patience snapped.  
  
"Valar, woman...PULL IT FROM MY BACK! Or must I do it myself?" Airy shouted, wriggling to her side in pain and offering her shoulder.  
  
Rhoswen steeled her self and yanked, casting the black shaft aside.  
  
"We have to hurry. I'm bleeding freely until I can get it bound," Aerwyn said, pushing her back against the wall to lift herself. Placing her left hand over the wound, she tried to press on the pressure point as best she could.  
  
"Who is the healer here, you or I, sister?" Rhoswen asked good naturedly, frowning at the blood on her sister's hand.  
  
"It might be me...you make a very good fighter, it seems," she returned, trying to lighten the mood.  
  
Rhoswen held back a laugh. "Never again a warrior."  
  
Aerwyn leaned heavily upon the younger woman, hoping she was strong enough to support her weight. Aerwyn felt so tired and weak all of a sudden. She became afraid to close her eyes, as if in shutting them she would never open them again. Her breathing became increasingly labored.  
  
"You must keep living, sister! You must!" Rhoswen pleaded as she walked.  
  
"But I am so tired..." Airy answered, her head lolling on her shoulder. Finally, Rhoswen caught sight of Beleg in the crowd ahead of them.  
  
"Beleg, help me! She was hit...and I cannot carry her." Rhoswen finished helplessly.  
  
His head spun around and a soundless cry made his mouth hang open. "Her armor weighs her down! Help me get off her breastplate!" he cried. Rhoswen hastily unlaced the heavy plates, throwing them aside while Beleg worked on the knee guards and tossed aside the shoulder pauldrons and the gauntlets.  
  
Rhoswen ran a hand along her face, and her expression turned fearful. "Her skin is going cold!"  
  
He worked quickly until she was free of all the armor. Picking her up as though she weighed no more than a feather, Beleg fairly raced through the streets, crying out as he went.  
  
"Make way! Make way for the Raven!"  
  
The soldiers who heard his cry looked about and when they saw the limp form of the woman he carried, they shouted in remorse. Some cursed the horde that drove them back, specifically, the orc who had dared attack their lady; others shouted at Rhoswen, urging her to safety.  
  
She shook her head wordlessly, lost and feeling very, very alone. Looking back at the burning city, she began again her climb to the houses of healing.  
  
--  
  
Beleg pushed through the crowded hallways of the houses of healing, Aerwyn's prone body flopping in his arms like a rag doll. Carefully, he laid her on the first empty bed he saw, letting a page run for herbs and a pan of water to clean her wound. Rhoswen fought her way through the crowds, kneeling by Aerwyn's bedside and grasping her cold hand hard, her cheeks streaked with tears.  
  
"No, no, no...no, Aerwyn...you cannot leave me here. Aerwyn, you must not die, you must not!" the young woman cried wildly into Airy's sweat soaked clothes as Beleg anointed Aerwyn's wound with warm water, pressing a clean bandage to the wound. Eventually, when the wound was clean and the bleeding staunched, Beleg looked up from his work, wiping his weary hands on a towel. Rhoswen still knelt by the Raven's side, her tears silent now as she wept into the sheets.  
  
Beleg shook his head. Another healer came by, glancing at Rhoswen and whispering in the healer's ear. He shook his head with a disheartened glance at the White Rose.  
  
"Do not tell her of it," he whispered to the concerned healer, "She is not ready for such news. Let her stay by the Lady's side; I think it would only make her heartache worse. She loved the lord Faramir like a brother, and from what you say, there is not hope for him."  
  
The healer nodded sagely, going back to the room that housed the son of the steward, lying in bed, tossing in his fever, branded by the black breath.  
  
Several hours later, Rhoswen had finished her crying and know knelt among the sick, feeding several a thin broth so they could recover their strength. One of the younger maids ran up, her face excited and breathless.  
  
"Lady Rhoswen, he is in the city! I have seen him!"  
  
Rhos pushed a hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand. "Who? Who is in the city?"  
  
"The Lord Boromir...He has returned my lady, with many fair folk besides!"  
  
Rhoswen nearly dropped the cloth she was holding. "You speak truly?" The maid nodded vigorously, smiling exuberantly. "Where is he? I must see him!"  
  
"The hall of kings... He sits with the King in council." Rhoswen was confused.  
  
"The...the king? He has returned, at last! What a glorious day for the Tower of Guard! The King is Returned!" Rhoswen nearly sang, smiling even wider. But the maid could not finish saying that he had best not be disturbed as he was in council, because the Rose of Gondor had taken off running down the hallway crying tears of joy.

* * *

_There was a cry from the back of the hall, and the men turned. A raven- haired young woman ran up, and threw herself into Boromir's arms, spinning around.  
  
"They told me you were dead...and then the king was in the city with you...and I had to give you this before you left! And...Oh, Boromir, it has been too long! " She was weeping. Boromir looked at her, smiled, relieved, and turned to face his comrades, all of who had varying degrees of bewilderment and, in more than one case, mirth, written in their faces.  
  
"May I introduce to you the lady Rhoswen, my bride to be. Rhoswen, this is Gimli, son of Glóin, King Éomer of the Riddermark, you know Mithrandir, and Aragorn...Isildur's heir." He seemed to stumble over the last name, but smiled at his friend. Each man acknowledged her in his turn, Gimli and Éomer bowed, Gandalf nodded, and Aragorn stepped forward, and kissed her hand.  
  
"We have heard much of you, milady. All of it in the highest of reverences." The young woman looked at him in amazement, and then dropped low into a curtsey.  
  
"It is an honor to meet my king, and a joy that he thinks well of me." She withdrew a carefully folded piece of cloth from its package, which she had been carrying.  
  
"Allow me to present your majesty with a standard. It has seen many battles, and has been flying over Osgiliath these few weeks past. I apologize for the plainness- the king should have much better- but it is all I have to offer, such as it is." Aragorn unfurled the banner, a little weather worn, but still white and proud, the tree riding in full force in the middle.  
  
"It will be my pleasure to carry this, along with another made by one who holds me in high regards. I thank you, milady, from the depths of my heart."  
_

* * *

The italicized bit there at the end was in 'Journey through the Dark'.  
  
Hope you all liked Rhoswen's kick ass moment there...Angoliel was the chief inspiration for this, because she said that Rhos needed to kick ONE orc arse- so here it is, finally finished.  
  
Now review! 


	16. Why must love be so cruel?

This chapter was written with a lot of help from my fellow Gwethil Angoliel. You flame me, she sets her balrog Freddie on you...and I warn you, he gets mad really easy.  
  
And I don't own Aerwyn, she is similarly on loan with Freddie. And I don't own any canonical characters you recognize.  
  
-----  
  
As Faramir was bourn off to the houses of healing, Rhoswen stood on the ramparts, the horn of Gondor still in her shaking hands. The Prince of Dol Amroth stood nearby, nearly staring in trepidation at the young woman in his brother in law's keeping.  
  
One of the swan knights who had helped the prince bear the bier of the youngest son to the gates stepped forward rather reluctantly, and pulled off the ivory crested helmet. Slowly, the man knelt at her feet, much to her surprise, and brushed away a strand of dark hair, down casting his face as if afraid to look at her. It was the knight from the other day, the man who had turned away when he caught her gaze. But Rhoswen could see that this was indeed no man; it was Aerwyn. She opened her mouth to speak, but the plea to leave before more tainted grief should arise in this place was stilled at her lips.  
  
"Beloved of my brother, I have learned what it is to be humble. I take back whatever words my mouth has issued against you, and I pray you will grant me your forgiveness for my actions and my words, for both were un-honorable and have caused me pain as well." Rhoswen seemed so awestruck that the woman who was to be her sister, twelve years her senior, was kneeling at her feet begging for forgiveness she knew not what to say. She dropped to her knees beside the woman in armor and tipped the face of the raven towards her.  
  
"We are on even ground then, sister?" Aerwyn smiled a little, and Rhoswen pulled her close. "Let you then be the older sister I never had." Aerwyn felt a funny wet feeling at the back of her neck; Rhoswen had begun to cry. The younger got up, helping Aerwyn off her knees as she went. She faced the soldiers in the courtyard, and held up their hands, tightly clasped together.  
  
"The Raven of Gondor is returned to us!" A cry lifted from the surrounding assembly -scattered shouts of ' The Rose!' and 'The Raven'-and even Imrahil, consternated as he was that his niece had ridden with them, could not keep from clapping  
  
"Come, sister. I will not let you out of my sight again-Gondor would do ill to lose all children to the Steward." Rhoswen took the gloved and armored hand of Aerwyn in her own and the two walked back into the Hall of kings to talk of many things, problems past and problems present.  
  
-----  
  
"When we first talked face to face, you asked me why I cried; do you remember?" Aerwyn admitted that she did, looking at the young woman with a changed eye.  
  
"I wept in Boromir's room because I missed him. I missed him and that strength that he was, and wanted so badly for me to have. When he left, he told me to stand strong like the Tower's women have always done- like you have always done. But I am not strong."  
  
"But you are! How to last so many months without that which you desire most?"  
  
"A fear that if my hope crumbled, the city would crumble with me. You know what it is to be the emblem of the city, the embodiment of everyone's hopes. If the flag is ripped and sullied and torn, does the city derive any hope or courage from it? So I kept my tears to myself."  
  
"That does not make you weak. You have a different strength then me."  
  
"Ah, you, my sister, Aerwyn, Raven of the Tower of Guard, the woman who can fight dragons, Corsairs, and orcs without batting an eyelash, has much more strength than I."  
  
"Not many can match my temper-you've succeeded there. And though I am loath to admit it, for days on end afterwards, I lived in a fear. A fear of you...and what you could become...and it frightened me. Because I saw everything that I wasn't in you."  
  
"Then we balance the scales, do we not? For in all things, it is said, there must be balance. And neither of us tip the scales to one or the other's advantage." Rhoswen stared into her elder's eyes, and Aerwyn could see a certain light of age and wisdom written there in the modest and unassuming gray. The Raven nodded.  
  
"Yes...there is a balance."

* * *

Reviews? Pleases? we likes feed back, precious, we does!


	17. Caged behind these Walls

A note before I begin. This chapter takes place after the middle of chapter 10 of "Journey through the dark." I highly recommend reading that before reading this so you at least understand what is going on. AND WHY BOROMIR LIVES! Calms down I'm okay...I think.  
  
MAJOR SPOILERS FOR CHAPTER TEN OF 'JOURNEY THROUGH THE DARK'  
  
And I don't own it, on a side note. _Dejected sighCheers up as Boromir pats her back_  
  
-----  
  
Rhoswen ran from the room, the days event's weighing on her mind. So the King had returned, and Boromir...He lived still, and brought back all the love she could hope to give multiplied a hundredfold! And yet, he had to leave once more, and this time, death was a certainty. She nearly ran to the houses of healing, where she was needed much more than in war councils; to care for someone else's pain gave her some respite. Drying her tears to ask an apprentice where the warden could be found, she walked through the halls of the houses of healing with a certain heaviness in her step.  
  
The warden of the houses greeted her, a smell of herbs not at all unpleasant lingering in the air of the room.  
  
"Milady, I am glad to see you are not the one in death's embrace this time. Could you sit by her side till she wakes?" Rhoswen looked at the sleeping form of a blonde woman, peacefully sailing through the sea of sleep.  
  
"Yes, Master warden. I will alert you when she stirs." Rhoswen beckoned an apprentice to go for her workbasket, and sat down to watch the bird perched on the window sing.  
  
"Where am I? Who are you? This is not the Pelennor!" the blonde woman looked up from her bed at the room around her with some horror. Rhoswen smiled a little-a battle hardened woman seemed to show fear at not knowing where she was.  
  
"Yes milady, it is not. You are in the houses of healing, in the Tower of Guard, and I am Rhoswen. Do you feel well; shall I call for food?" The blonde's stomach rumbled, and she nodded sheepishly. Rhoswen set aside her sewing, and walked to the hall to flag down another apprentice. When she returned, the blonde was staring intently at her sewing- a carefully picked out ivory rose on that field of black fabric. Rhoswen caught her stare, and laid the piece on the invalid's lap.  
  
"What do you think of it thus far? I only started two days ago." The blonde looked at it, running slim fingers over the small stitches, and for a moment she was silent.  
  
"I think it wondrously done indeed. I have not the hands for women's work." She sighed, and looked at her folded hands on the coverlets.  
  
"So you think it easier to ride with the men?"  
  
"Yes. I was raised in a house full of them- my mother died when I was but five, and the aunt I lived with soon after. I had my brother and boy cousin for playmates. Tell me, Rhoswen, how is it that a seamstress such as yourself is in a city full of men- I have seen not one woman pass in the corridor since I have awakened."  
  
"Because they all have left for Lebannin, and the cities of the coast. I am one of the singular few that stayed. And my watching and waiting has come to fulfillment- my lover has returned." She smiled unsurely, and looked at the young woman, her eyes carefully masking something. "Have you some prince of your own?"  
  
"No, and I am glad of it. I loved, but his heart was given to another." Her voice was remorseful at the thought, thinking of, perhaps, some time when she had seen love and not despaired.  
  
"Love is a fickle thing, but when found, reaps more riches than the greatest mines." The sable haired woman quoted, pausing to pick out another stitch.  
  
"And does he ride with the king now- for your glory and his?" Rhoswen's countenance changed to sorrow, and she sighed.  
  
"Yes, at his right hand." The blonde was shocked.  
  
"Your lover is the lord Boromir? Forgive me, madam, but he seemed older when we met." Rhoswen seemed to don her mask again at the young woman's amazement, and smiled a little.  
  
"He is nearly twice my age, but good looking for it. And your cousin, your brother, are they somewhere with the king?"  
  
"My cousin lies in the mounds of Mundberg, and my brother, too, rides at the king's hand. For death and glory." Rhoswen looked at the blonde at her side with curiosity.  
  
"You are the Lady Éowyn? The one they call wraithbane? At last, the pieces of this puzzle fall in place."  
  
"I too, have heard of you, though only as a blessed memory. Boromir spoke often of you. I had thought you were married already, and older..."  
  
"So do most. We were to be married before midsummer last year, but..." her voice faltered here, "He had councils in Imaladris, and a quest to fulfill. I only hope that the king grants that we be married at earliest as can be contrived. I have waited far too long for that day." Éowyn made to rise, but Rhoswen put a hand out.  
  
"Please, lady, stay awhile. Your wounds will heal, but it will take time, and much sleep. Here is lunch; I have need to see another friend who fell on the Pelennor." She folded her work, slipped it in the basket, and went to find where Faramir was, leaving Éowyn to stare sadly at her soup.  
  
----  
  
"Rhoswen? Why is it that the tables have turned on me once more, and you now confine me to my bed?" The two of them were sitting in Faramir's room, each holding cups of the medicinal tea served in the houses to invalids. Rhoswen did not, per se, need it in particular, but having spent much time in the Houses while Boromir was abroad, had grown to like the taste.  
  
"Because, dear brother, justice is swift. Isildur's heir is here, in the city! Have you met him?"  
  
"If not for Isildur's heir, then I would be dead, dear sister. But that is a tale for another time. Have you tidings of the battle? Boromir said nothing."  
  
"Nay. If Boromir told you naught, then I can tell you naught, for I know only what he tells me, and that is nothing as of yet, save only that we won, and there are princes of great renown in this house. And the company of the free peoples has ridden to the black gates." At this, she seemed sad, but her face contained not the slightest sliver of regret as she continued, her face falling into wonder.  
  
"Faramir, I met the wraithbane, the woman they say slaughtered the Witch king and his fell beast with only her sword and her wits. She will be sung of in the halls these nights. But she is sorrowful, although loath to show such feelings. I know she would ask for release before the men return."  
  
"And what am I to say to such an offer?" Rhoswen smiled knowingly. Something had stirred in her heart, and she knew something good would come of this.  
  
"When she comes...you will know."  
  
-----  
  
It was the next day that the warden bowed himself into the lord Faramir's presence with the express request of begging for an audience on the part of the Lady Éowyn. Rhoswen was sitting in the garden-the two had been talking- and she rose and bowed as Éowyn, slightly paler than when they last met, but up and walking, followed the warden in.  
  
"Milord, here is the lady Éowyn, who has lain long in these houses after the battle on the Pelennor, for she was wounded grievously, and now desires audience with the steward of the city, for she is in ill content." The warden bowed courteously as he finished his audience introduction. Faramir drew himself off the bench where he had been sitting; pulling the cloak on his shoulders tighter, he thought for a moment.  
  
"I know not whether the keeping of the city falls to me, as my father still draws breath and my brother, too, also lives. But as neither of the two would, or indeed could, hear the lady, so shall I, at least, hear what she would say." The warden bowed again, and let Éowyn speak.  
  
"Do think me wrong, milord, for it is not for lack of care or keeping that grieves me. I have at my wish all that I could hope for save one thing, and that is my free will. I am not the sort to like being caged, to lie in sloth until all battles are ended. I looked for death in battle, and I faced it down, and still I do not lie with my fathers in the barrows."  
  
"Why would you seek out death, milady?" Faramir looked at her piercingly, and Éowyn looked him straight back, her vibrant blue eyes every match for his calm cornflower ones.  
  
"Because, milord, what use is there in living without love? My uncle is dead, and one I thought would give me what I sought refused me. Because those given to death have more freedom than those permitted to life." Faramir pondered her words for a moment, and looked back at her.  
  
"What would you have me do, for I am a prisoner, as you say, of the healers as well. But what would you wish? If it is in my power, I shall do my best to grant it."  
  
"I would wish you to command the warden, and bid him release me from his keeping."  
  
"Then, I am loath to say, I cannot do what you desire, for authority of the city is not truly mine, and though I am still in his keeping, I still desire of his council, for he is wise in many things."  
  
"But not do I desire healing-I desire death! Glory, or honor well fought for, so that my name will be remembered. I wish it that I would ride to war with my brother, and the captains of this fair city."  
  
"That I also cannot do, madam, for the captains left some time ago, and you could not hope to catch them even with the fastest of horses. But we may meet our death in battle sooner or later, but perhaps not on the battlefields of war you wish of. As time passes freely, so must you too also be given freedom, but not for a time. You and I both must endure hours of waiting, with patience and hope, for the days to come."  
  
"I am not patient, lord, nor am I meek. And the healers would have me lie abed seven days yet." Rhoswen spoke, and her voice, so normally soft and demure, still held that tone, but in a saddened vice.  
  
"Faramir, you know as well as any what this lady suffers; I suffered, and you comforted me, caged as she is behind these white walls, waiting for something that all others have given up hope or want for. At least, let her window look eastward, as mine looked for a time to the north, and let her hope that with each day, hope or death will come." She got up, bowed to Faramir, and then Éowyn. "I would take leave of you, my lord." She kissed his cheek, embracing him, and left, seemingly holding back tears.  
  
"What vexes the lady Rhoswen so, for I am told her lover returned to the city? What is it she desires?"  
  
"To see his face, and not in death's pallor. She may have told you; he has ridden with the king, and her hope is all but spent for his return. Nearly a year she has waited for him, and always looked northward, as you now desire to look east. But her watches were not held in any company save the memory of his love. But, as I cannot release you, at least let me ease your watches as I have eased my sister's. Here in this garden every day you would find me, walking and waiting as my wont lies, and if you desire, you would walk at will with me. It would ease my care greatly, if you would speak to me, or walk at whiles in my company."  
  
"How would that do to ease your care, milord? And I desire no grand speeches to tell me your plain answer-I would have it in the speech of living men."  
  
"Then, Éowyn of Rohan, I would say that you are beautiful, fairer still than all flowers or manner of maid that I have seen in Gondor, and maids and flowers are to be found in plenty here. But I have never seen a beauty like yours that in it's heart keeps sorrow closest. But if the king should fail, and fall to darkness, it should please me nothing more to have spent the last days of mine on this earth in the company of someone so fair. And it would ease my heart if by my company I would ease yours." Éowyn looked up at him from her feet, and spoke, her voice quavering, losing its proud edge.  
  
"I am a shield maid, sir, and such words are wasted on me. I could not hope to give you such solace as you desire, for shadow lies in me still. But I thank you for what small comforts you have given me, that I need not lie abed. I would walk in this garden by the grace the steward has given me, and if.... if he so desires my company, he shall have it."  
  
She turned, and left, and Faramir was left in the silences of the garden to ponder what force drove the universe, and caused man and woman alike to say such reckless words.  
  
Rhoswen came back, her eyes a little bit more bleary, and laid a hand on his shoulder.  
  
"Faramir, you've eased my pain a bit, for have seen something unexpected pass your lips."  
  
"What would that be, white rose?"  
  
"The first fruits of love, dear brother. I can see in your eyes a blossom, of hope and all things fair, but first among them is love. It is good to know, brother, that one whom I hold dear to my heart should find such precious a commodity in so dire an hour. And my fondest hope, Faramir, that she returns your love in kind." She sat down, and they talked for many an hour till the sun began to set over long tales and other things besides, but Faramir's mind was never far from the white lady of Rohan.  
  
-----  
  
Sniffles I'm trying to be modest, but that was beautiful, doncha think? Any dialogue you recognize or can cross reference in 'the steward and the king' obviously does not belong to me. Although, I did rework some of those words from the text.  
  
Shout outs-  
  
BIG THANK YOU TO TERREIS, WHO INCLUDED RHOSWEN IN HER FIC, 'ADVENTURES OF THE FANFICTION FELLOWSHIP'. That woman really knows how to flatter me. If you haven't already, go read it. For those of you already directed here via Terreis, thank you much for coming, and I hope you enjoyed the show.  
  
Alainn- GRRR...okay. I'm fine. I updated, I updated! Are you not entertained? **What movie?**  
  
Sailor Taichichi Vegeta- What can I say? Moving the world, one fan at a time. I'm so glad I made a difference.  
  
Me- I'm pretty sure I didn't' review my own story...but I updated. And can whoever left the seemingly anonymous review go out come to the reference desk-your review wants you.  
  
Dread Lady Freya- Your review made me laugh -they always do. And thanks...I'm sorry for the confusion. I seem to be inserting chapters left and right. Can we talk later about getting me a guest room at this fortress of evil fuzzy bunny slippers? Do you specifically have to have bunny slippers and wear them to commence membership?  
  
Roisin Dubh and Eruanne- I love you both.  
  
Via the small blue button in the corner there, tell me what you think-and no flames because I didn't use the original dialogue, please. The only things flames are useful for are toasting marshmallows and hot dogs. And I'm not camping right now...obviously. So, tell me what you liked/didn't like/think I could do to move this somewhere that's not pink and fluffy...shivers...pink... 


	18. Called home by the Clear Ringing of Silv...

------  
  
Rhoswen looked out over the high white walls, the still rancid smell of death and burning flesh lingering in the air, even with a brazier of sweet smelling herbs beside her, tears of nothing but the purest joy staining her face as she watched the small black speak that was the Company of the West march away from the still crumbling remains of unadulterated evil. Though she could not see him, Rhoswen knew in her heart that he could not be dead- and it was this more than anything that gave her profound joy  
  
"Sound the trumpets! Give word to the heralds that the lords of Gondor have returned victorious!" Rhoswen called to the nearest page, who scampered off with a newly renewed smile on his face. And Rhoswen turned her face to the sun and smiled.  
  
"So, my friend, you have not deserted me after all? The sun really does shine for me, happiest of happy hearts in this, most blessed of hours."  
  
So it was that Boromir's foretelling that the Tower Guard should take up the call that the lords of Gondor had returned, and call home those valiant hearts with silver trumpets ringing clear across the Pelennor, with banners caught high in the breeze, the tower of Ecthelion glimmering like a spike of pearl and silver in the newly found sun.  
  
----  
When the Company of the captains of the west rode into the city, they were greeted with the clearing of a fanfare of the trumpets, resounding the victory of the west over the hills and plains.  
  
Boromir looked at Aragorn, who smiled at the rogue glint in his eyes, and broke from the company to gallop up to the top of the tower, jumping down off his horse to greet his lady love. The young woman ran over, embracing him so hard as though the world would end. Boromir fiercely kissed the top of her head, and looked at her. So beautiful, so perfect, the epitome of grace and compassion and everything that he needed and wanted and had in this beautiful woman that loved him to no end. Not caring the least that his uncle and comrades had by now reached the top of the Tower, Boromir kissed Rhoswen-and this was no chaste peck, either- pouring every single ounce of love he possessed into her lips. There was a clearing of throats in the crowd, and the Warden of the Tower looked at the king, who was gazing at the two of them with a funny smile in his eyes, the smile of some one who has just played a prank and knows you'll be feeling it soon. Boromir laid an arm around Rhoswen's waist and turned to look at his king.  
  
"Your smile tells me you have some devilry planned- and I tell you, I'll have none of it." Aragorn shook his head, and laughed. But now the warden came forward out of the Hall of the King, and whispered gravely in the Captain General's ear, and the laugh died down as Boromir's smile evaporated.  
  
The Eldest son of the Steward sat at his father's bedside, the older man not moving, the gentle breathing the only sign that he was still with living. There was a tap on his shoulder, and he looked up to see Aragorn.  
  
"Why are you here?"  
  
"I came to see you and your father...has he stirred?"  
  
"Nay." Boromir's face fell even more, as if he was giving up, yet again, the most precious commodity in the universe in times like these-hope.  
  
"May I?" Aragorn drew from a pouch at his waist several leaves, and dropped them in a bowl of water at the steward's bedside, where a cloth lay, seeping in the warm moisture. Very gently, he washed the elderly man's forehead. After what seemed an eternity, the steward's head moved, and ever so slowly, his eyes opened, as though his vision swam.  
  
"Burning...everything was burning...what a dream...and..." He seemed incoherent, like what he said was not his own.  
  
"Father? Father, can you not hear me? Can you not see your son?" Boromir seemed close to tears- his father was so close, and yet...so far.  
  
"I had a son once...but he is dead. Am I not now dead too, that he is before me?" Denethor mumbled to himself, or no one in particular.  
  
"I am not dead, father! I am not dead, and nor is Faramir or Aerwyn! Why, why will you not wake? Why must this madness you suffer make me suffer in twain?" Boromir began to cry, and he laid his head on his father's hand. The old man hesitated, struggling to remember, and slowly, he began to stroke his son's hair.  
  
"Boromir...Boromir...they told me you were dead."  
  
All Boromir could do was cry.  
  
------  
  
Rhoswen looked into her father in law's room to see her king wiping his hands on a towel, sleeves rolled to his elbows, smiling knowledgably, and her fiancé crying and trying to speak at the same time. Denethor looked to the door, and with an aged hand, beckoned her in.  
  
"Rhoswen..." his face cracked a smile. Now he seemed much older, lined and wizened, white haired and sunken in appearance, as if a hundred years of troubles had been brought down upon him while he slept  
  
"It pains me to see you like this, milord. My best wishes for your continued good health. I would take Boromir, if it pleases milord. He and I have much to speak of." Denethor waved a hand to carry on, and Rhoswen gently led Boromir out of his father's room, and down the hall, offering a handkerchief.  
  
"There is something I'd like you to see, love." She took his hand and led him through the streets to the houses of healing. She pointed from the balcony looking over the gardens to two figures, one clad in white with a great azure cloak billowing about her, golden hair rippling in the wind, and the other with a rich green cloak, tawny locks blowing about with the chill breezes. The two were gazing off into the Pelennor, and the woman in blue drew nearer the man; they were talking.  
  
"Yonder is your brother, and I have heard it from his own lips that he fosters a love in his heart for the lady Éowyn."  
  
"The lady Éowyn? The Wraithbane? Truly, to the gentle go the spirited, and to the spirited go the gentle-a union of opposites. Shall I call to him?" Rhoswen pulled him away from the balcony, a light of pleading in her eyes.  
  
"You must not! Please, Boromir-would you have liked it if Faramir had walked in on us kissing? Leave them- you and I have better things to speak of." She took his big hand and led him away, to talk of the battle, and other ceremonials besides.  
  



	19. Here do I Renew the Pledge that thou gav...

This chapter was originally planned to go up in the story 'Journey through the Dark'. ...Due to circumstances somewhat under my control, it went here instead. I'm putting this up because I want reviews!  
  
YOU HEAR? I WANT REVIEWS! I'm hoping to get to a hundred sometime soon. But make them nice reviews...none of this ' that was gr8' bunk. BIG THANKS to Rosin Dubh to pointing out one error I fixed in this revision.

* * *

Rhoswen looked at her lady in waiting, beaming with amazement and mirth as the maids attending her tied the last knot for her headpiece on, handing her the bouquet of flowers, running with white roses in plenty, and stepping back to see the effects of their handiwork. Rhoswen put a conscious hand on her heavy dress, ivory-cream damask brought from her father's fiefdom especially for her long sleeved wedding dress, sewn so long ago, it seemed.  
  
"Maire! You knew! You knew he would say that! And you laid everything out...why does no one tell me anything?"  
  
"The Lord Aragorn swore us to secrecy. He did not even tell the Lord Boromir. The look on your faces was priceless. Come, marriage waits for no one. Not even those with fearful hearts."

* * *

On the other side of the hall, closed off from the main room in the process of being beswagged and garlanded with flowers and veils, Boromir paced. He looked very uncomfortable in his new surcoat, embroidered in gold and silver threads outlining the Tree of Gondor.  
  
"Are you ill, Boromir? Shall I send for a healer?" Aragorn looked concernedly at his friend, pacing back in forth in a very agitated way.  
  
"Why must you torment me as if we were boys? You planned the whole thing!"  
  
"I believe cunning is one of the many attributes used to describe me."  
  
"Aragorn, I can't do this!"  
  
"You love her?" Aragorn looked at his friend, a strange truth in his eyes. Boromir cocked an eyebrow.  
  
"More than life itself. What has that to do with anything?"  
  
"Than you can marry her. Boromir, I've heard enough about this woman to think I'd grown up with her by my side. You love her, and that's enough. Now as your king, I command you to put on a smile, and stand there without further back thought."  
  
"It will be as my lord commands." Aragorn smiled, and clapped the nervous man on the shoulder.  
  
"Good man. You must remember also that it is my wedding day as well, and it would not be fitting to have both king and steward appear nervous." Boromir looked at Aragorn in wonder.  
  
"You are nervous? My king jests, surely."  
  
"I do not. Now come, the hour of our fateful new beginnings approaches fast."

* * *

Rhoswen looked as her maids shuffled her off into a chamber outside the grand hall, giggling as they prepared the bridal bower. She turned from the hastily closed doors to see Arwen looking out the window. Rhoswen stood for a moment, entranced. She'd seen her earlier, but closer now, the loveliness of the future queen of Gondor. Truly was this woman the most beautiful creature on the waking face of this earth. The elf turned, and Rhoswen dropped a curtsey.  
  
"You need not stand on ceremony for my account, Rhoswen of the Langstrand. It is my hope that we will be good friends, starting in this ceremony of joining. I am not acquainted with the customs of Gondor; how goes this ceremony?"  
  
"Well, milady-"  
  
"Just Arwen will suffice. We are to be sisters, and I would have you address me as such."  
  
"Arwen, then...well...one of the parents will say a blessing, and gifts will be exchanged-all of them very symbolic. And then the bride and groom clasp hands and tell of what they wish in their life. Then the bridal ale will be drunk, and then...we feast! It is not complicated, but deeply rooted in tradition. Many gifts will be given, and the celebrations will last late into the night." Rhoswen looked at her queen, framed in light form the window.  
  
"Tell me, if it please, mi-Arwen...how do the ceremonies of the elves go?"  
  
"I have witnessed many, and all of them different. But enough of weddings. What is life here in the city like, sister?"  
  
"It can be noisy, and sometimes you wish for the house by the sea in the summertide, but I am well loved by the children, who bring me flowers in the spring, and there are poets at court who sing praises to the most beautiful of women, and...well, I cannot think of any city that has felt more like home. When war is not upon them, the people here are most hospitable." The elf nodded sagely, looking out the window, her slender hands resting on the stone sill.

* * *

The grand hall was cathedral silent as the two brides walked down the aisle made by the crowd of people, the air filled with the smell of roses and lilies. Down aside the thrones, two men waited, one in sable and the other in ivory. Behind them, an elderly man in pure white waited, arms clasped in front, smiling. Both women, veiled in cloth of silver, came and stood by their lovers, hands filially holding flowers, which both passed to maids waiting at the sides.  
  
"Love is the flower than in eternal spring blooms fully. Words shall be spoken, hearts given, and lives bound as one." The servants handed the participants cloaks, which they draped around shoulders.  
  
"Now you will feel no rain, for each of you will be shelter to the other. Now you will feel no cold, for each of you will be warmth to the other. Now there is no loneliness for you, for each of you will be companion to the other. Now you are two persons, but there is one life before you." Boromir and Aragorn both held out in open hands newly forged swords, and when they spoke, it was with one voice.  
  
"This is my sword-keep it well for our sons."  
  
"It shall be as my husband commands." Rhoswen and Arwen held both with shaking hands, and held hilts first Anduril to Aragorn, and the blade that had served Boromir so well to it's respective owner.  
  
"With this sword, defend out home and uphold the honor of out family."  
  
"It shall be as my wife commands." Aragorn took the thin hands of his beloved in calloused war won ones.  
  
"Welcome, love of my love, soul of soul, my wife and life keeper. Here do I redeem the pledge thou gavest. I pour my heart's flood upon thee in this windless place. Naught but life shall prevail between us. Thou shalt live in a palace of stone and fortitude, love of ages." When he had finished, he slid the diamond- emerald clad ring on the slight elvish finger. Arwen echoed to him.  
  
"Thy enemies shall fall to their destruction, and their fortresses be passed over with mighty winds, and the sand of time shall corrode those friendships which were not pure, and nations shall lie at thy feet... surely well do I know thee. We travel this path together, which my love hath traced for thee." She, also, took a ring, engraved on gold with flowing leaves, and slid it over his hand, letting it rest beside the ring of Barahir, emerald adamant shining. Boromir cast back the silvered veil to gaze into Rhoswen's expectant eyes. With a trembling voice, she said,  
  
"You are my husband. My feet will dance because of you, and my eyes shall weep joy because of you, and my hands shall move gently because your love is pure."  
  
"You are my wife. My feet shall run because of you, and my eyes shall see because of you, and my hands shall fly because you are mine." With one voice, deep and yet soprano, they both said,  
  
"My mind's fields shall flower because you are near, and my heart shall beat in one with yours, because we are one. And I shall love because you walk this earth with me." With their ending, both took rings, one set with diamond leaves, and the other silver etched band, and exchanged them. Boromir studied the band on his finger with some caution, and Rhoswen smiled, biting back the urge to giggle. The elder presiding spoke.  
  
"You are two bodies, but one soul- two hearts, but one love. Now you have been bound by sacred word and heartstrings, and this is a bond that death is only able to break. May you love in war and peace, sickness and health, doing and undoing, until the world release you, or death take you, until the sundering of the seas and the breaking of the sky."  
  
And the two pairs of hearts walked from the hall to the banquet that had been prepared in their honor, the like of which Gondor had not seen in a hundred years, and would not see in another two hundred. Great platters heaped with steaming meats, vegetables cooked and prepared in every way possible, sweetmeats and cakes of every size and design.  
  
Great rounds of cheese specially imported from the Shire and Rohan for the wedding due the summer last lay in golden splendor on platters, and flagons of wine from the coast and specially brought by the elves for the merriment were poured out in plenty. The fine golden white bridal cake sat in white uncut splendor in front of the bridal table. Draped in white cloth, with a canopy of damask over the brides and grooms, the guests came to compliment both brides on their dresses, praise the fathers on their hospitality, and give their best wishes to brides and grooms alike. Denethor, newly out of his bed, hobbled forward with the assistance of a cane and his daughter to congratulate his son. The absence of the influence of the palantir seemed to have aged the Steward immensely, and Boromir feared breaking some fragile bone as he embraced his father. Aerwyn kissed her brother on the cheek, and smiled, nodding her head at Rhoswen, who smiled back and nodded also. Aerwyn curtsied for the King and Queen.  
  
"This must be Aerwyn. We have heard precious little about you. Are all jewels Gondor harbors kept secret by fathers and brothers?" Aerwyn blushed at the king's comment, but knew he meant nothing by it.  
  
"Some are hidden better than others. But, as I can gather, my brother flaunts his wealth when abroad." Aerwyn smiled at her brother, who shook his head.  
  
"We keep this one hidden because her words run away with her sometimes. No man yet has been able to tame the Raven of Gondor." Boromir told the king with a knowing grin. It was Aerwyn's turn to shake her head, and she left, supporting her aging father on her arm.  
  
Per his usual, Faramir stood for the toast, and the hall grew quiet. Pages poured the bridal ale, topping off cups with hearty golden foam.  
  
"I am especially glad that two men that I count as brothers have shared joys today, for joy is made to be that way, shared in every art. I look to my new sisters, and my family, for the guidance that a younger brother wants. I know that these unions will be blessed; I cannot think of no other woman that controls Boromir better, and as for our good king Elessar, I can see that our king's heart shall be full indeed in this new life. It is the eve of Midsummer, and the turning of the year from rise to decline, and I hope that these two unions rise and fall as love sometimes does, but is everlasting, as years go by. My blessings, brothers; May your lives be filled with love, life and laughter." Boromir raised his glass to Éowyn.  
  
"And my hope that you and your White Lady tie your heart strings soon, too, brother. We have waited far too long on the prospect of marriage for you!" The hall roared with laughter, and Éowyn and Faramir could not help but laugh too.  
  
When the platters had been emptied, and the flagons dry, the guests crowded down from their seats to dance on the floor between the wooden 'O' formed by the tables. Laughing, the brides lead their husbands onto the floor for the first dance, a lively light stepping reel.  
  
Towards the end of the evening, as the moon reached it's zenith, and the dancers feet needed resting, a few of the city's bards were called forward to perform. When the third had finished his piece, Boromir beckoned one of the maids out of the hall. She returned bearing a harp case, and knelt with the instrument in front of the Lady Rhoswen.  
  
"We wish the Lady of Gondor to play us something-your talent with the harp is well spoken of." Aragorn smiled, and Rhoswen shook her head.  
  
"I could not..."  
  
"Come now, lady. It is well known that your playing enchanted the lord Boromir- and there are some who have heard you play that say you could charm an elf with your voice. Now it is time to test their theory, as there are several in our blessed company." Aragorn looked at his wife, and inclined his head to his father in law. Rhoswen got up, and took the harp from its case with gentle hands, carefully turning the pegs to tune the instrument. Delicately, she began to pluck the stings, filling the listening ears with music.  
  
"Lay down Your sweet and weary head  
  
Night is falling  
  
You have come to journey's end  
  
Sleep now 

And dream of the ones who came before

They are calling From across a distant shore

Why do you weep?  
  
What are these tears upon your face?  
  
Soon you will see  
  
All of your fears will pass away  
  
Safe in my arms  
  
You're only sleeping What can you see  
  
On the horizon?  
  
Why do the white gulls call?  
  
Across the sea  
  
A pale moon rises  
  
The ships have come to carry you home  
  
And all will turn  
  
To silver glass  
  
A light on the water  
  
All Souls pass Hope fades  
  
Into the world of night  
  
Through shadows falling  
  
Out of memory and time  
  
Don't say  
  
We have come now to the end  
  
White shores are calling  
  
You and I will meet again  
  
And you'll be here in my arms  
  
Just sleeping  
  
And all will turn  
  
To silver glass  
  
A light on the water  
  
Grey ships pass  
  
Into the West..." With a flourish, she finished, letting the last note resonate, and looked at her audience. Several of the elves had half pained, half joyful looks, and others looked blissful, eyes closed and faces upturned as if savoring the feel of the sun on their faces.  
  
Boromir swept up behind his wife as soon as her harp was back in the hands of her maid and swept her off her feet, the bridal party following them to the bridal bower.  
  
The wedding party bid the two couples goodnight to their separate rooms, throwing flowers as new husbands carried brides over thresholds, and friends ushered the crowds out for peace in the royal bedchambers.  
  
------  
  
Yeah, I know...you're all going 'Shucks, why didn't she go into depth about AFTER the doors?" I'm not in the 'you know what' writing mood now.  
  
Aragorn and Arwen's wedding vows came from 'DUNE' by Frank Herbert, as part of the traditional Freman wedding. Rhoswen and Boromir's vows came from a wedding blessing.  
  
Leave reviews- do you think I could use some work on how I write ceremony? Do you think I should be slow roasted along with the venison served at the high table of the king for embarrassing Faramir? Or hanged, drawn, and quartered for not letting you in on the juicy secrets of what goes on behind chamber doors? Leave a review and give me some feedback. 


	20. I have waited far too long

Well, folks, the chapter I know you've all been waiting for-What happens after the doors shut. _winks_ Thanks to Angoliel, who helped and insisted that this chapter get on cyber paper sooner rather than later. This is being posted as her birthday present along with chapter 22...after you're done with this update, go and see how the fight ends!  
  
OH, and this is defiantly 'R' rated material...so if you're not into graphic descriptions, skip this.

* * *

After the doors clanged shut with a somewhat ominous bang, Boromir turned to look at his bride, rushing to hold her in his arms. She smiled, but held him back a little way.  
  
"Patience, my love." She said, her voice low and coy.  
  
Boromir blinked. "Patience...patience?! I've waited near two years for this night, and you bid me be patient? I have waited far to long for this, my rose." Boro breathed into her hair, threading his fingers through it. She laughed softly, only tempting him more.  
  
"A little longer won't kill you, dear Boromir," she chuckled, walking away from him. What did she have in mind? He followed his wife as she sat on their bed, her white gown spilling elegantly over their sheets.  
  
She lay back, her beautiful form stretching over the bed. She watched his reaction to her seductive pose. His back stiffened, his breath quickened, Rhoswen taking note of this and resting her hand lightly on her hip, rubbing it slowly.  
  
Erotically caressing the rounded curve, she watched her husband's growing desire for her. Very carefully, she unlaced his coat, laying it aside and beginning to take the shirt under it off, tracing the whitened scar on his shoulder once the shirt had slid off the bed to the floor. Her long finger tickled his skin, and Boromir felt his temperature rising, her touch enticing him even more; She kissed the scar, touching her tongue to his skin.  
  
"I have other wounds that need caring for," he whispered throatily in her ear.  
  
"All in time, dearest. It will come in time," she whispered, toying with him. Boromir growled under his breath, impatient. Her hands roamed over his bare back, her fingernails lightly dancing on his flesh. "Almost like feathers," Boromir thought. He moaned when he felt her lips caressing his nipple, teasing it.  
  
"My husband is so strong..."she whispered seductively, letting her feather light fingers travel his stomach, muscles tightened by years of military training. They drew taut now under her touch. He wished she would let her hands travel lower...  
  
"I will show you how strong I am," he growled, "when you take off these cursed pants!"  
  
She merely chuckled. "That too, will come in time," she snickered. Oh, how long this was taking! Boromir wanted to tear that gown from her body and set his lips to every part of her flesh.  
  
Her hand teased him on, running over his hot skin with a cool touch. "You are quite warm," she remarked with the air of someone commenting on the weather.  
  
"Only with my passion for you, beloved," he murmured.  
  
Rhoswen kissed him with mind-numbing ferocity. Boromir liked her this way, wild and nothing but woman. Her teeth nipped at his lips, her tongue caressing the roof of his mouth.  
  
"So the rose has some thorns," he said when she had continued her kissing of his face. Her body merely pressed closer to his, sending feral thrills through his being. He embraced her tightly, his hands resting at her hips.  
  
She inched away from him, picking a white rose up from the vase next to the bed, twirling it between her fingers and smiling with a secretive look. Valar, how enticing she looked, Boromir thought to himself, studying her sweet lips. His muscled torso beckoned her to touch him again, his face masked with pure delight, his swollen lips parted. His eyes were darkening as he simply stared at her. What would she do next? She began to let the rose run over his naked shoulders, caressing his neck with satin petals like some ancient priestess' wand. She heard the hiss of breath between his teeth, his muscles trembling as he fought the urge to hungrily take her then and there.  
  
She continued with the rose, watching him with sharp eyes, waiting for his patience to snap. Her taunting game reached his abdomen, and it was at that moment that he finally threw her back on the bed, climbing over her.  
  
"You lasted longer than I thought," she laughed. "But you have yet to remove my dress, milord..." she said with a wanton smile. Boromir smiled wickedly and slid back to sit on his heels. Slowly he lifted the gown above her ankles, tickling her legs. Finally it revealed her thighs; Rhoswen's eyes went wide when she realized he would torment her now...  
  
Her head lashed back when she felt his tongue in her: She moaned softly...never had he done this in Osgiliath. But that had been different- Tonight, he could take his time. His tongue probed her more, moving in and out quite slowly. Tonight, she would know sweet pain.  
  
Suddenly, his tongue thrust into her sharply, and Rhoswen moaned his name loudly. He could feel her legs tense, her entire body try to suppress a convulsion of pleasure. He grinned inwardly and licked at her sharply again, his tongue a blunt dagger within her; Her hands clenched around the sheets at his action. His ministrations became quicker...more delightful, flickering out of her, around her legs, her navel.  
  
As he made his way up her body, he brought her dress with him, finally pulling it over her head, trapping her arms with it.  
  
"Now I shall have my way," he growled, dangerously enticing.  
  
"You mean to take me when I cannot fight back?" she teased breathlessly.  
  
Boromir chuckled. "You wouldn't fight me anyway, dearest rose. Not when I do this..." His hands caressed her bosom, kneading her supple breasts, kissing them as she had done to him minutes ago.  
  
She moaned with satisfaction, feeling his length pressed against her leg. It was getting to be quite stiff and insistent as he favored her. It would only be a matter of time before the warrior changed weapons.  
  
Boromir nibbled at her neck, suckling at the flesh at her throat. With a roguish smile, he pulled away, rubbing his lower body against her. Her blood was pounding in her veins now...the woman beneath Rhos' seductions was begging to be let loose.  
  
"Do you want me now," he purred, "or later?"  
  
"When ever thou cares to, my lord." She said breathlessly.  
  
He continued to grind against her, his pants becoming rather annoying. "I seem to be...unable to fulfill your request, wife," he drawled deliciously. "I am still clothed."  
  
Rhoswen smirked. "That can be fixed...If you would but let me out of my dress...I am still trapped."  
  
With a last lick of her ear, Boromir removed the dress from her person entirely and cast it to the floor. She pressed a hand to his navel, traveling south a little and letting her hand rest there. Boromir raised his eyebrows and squirmed, growling. How beastly he was, she observed carefully, so hungry, so demanding of her attention, so desperately needy for her...  
  
"Continue, if you please," he almost begged, his voice husky; she smiled at his near whine.  
  
"Now, should I make the dear captain suffer a little while longer or let him have me now?" she mused out loud, her voice toying with him, her hand a little tighter to his trousers.  
  
"You know what I want, woman..." He grit his teeth, a moan rumbling in his chest.  
  
She carefully began to unlace his pants, letting her fingers take the strings out slowly, savoring his moans for her to move more rapidly.  
  
"Did you never learn haste, Rhoswen? Be quick!" he whined.  
  
"Oh, but Boro, every minute I waste you want me more..." She said, laughter lacing her voice. Boromir growled again.  
  
She suddenly squeezed him again, quite tightly, and he threw his head back, snarling like a beast. Rhoswen arched an eyebrow.  
  
"I think you've had enough..." she said, carefully choosing her words.  
  
"I'll...never have enough of you," he panted. She slipped his pants over his hips, letting his manhood free.  
  
"Insatiable lust, this one has." The Rose remarked. As soon as his pants were off, Boromir was upon her again, clutching her buttocks, kissing her lips. His hands roamed from her buttocks to her back, holding her close, never wanting to let her go. This time, he bucked against her, making her aware of what sensations she gave to him.  
  
"Will you let me have you now?" he breathed into her ear. She gasped a yes.  
  
With a swift motion from his hips, he penetrated her savagely, causing her to moan his name long and loud. Her hips buckled with his, letting her melt into him. Boromir delighted how well she fit around him. They were made for each other. As he thrust into her, Boromir kissed her, his tongue matching the motions of his length. Each thrust made her moan louder. She grappled again with the bed sheets, his name saccharine on her lips; even her moans tasted sweet to him. He pumped faster now, to push them both over the edge.  
  
Her breathing was rapid now, her skin shining with a shimmer of sweat. Boromir's hair hung about his face, the strands clinging to each other with sweat. Pulling away from her lips, he moaned her name sensually, rolling the syllables over his tongue. Looking at her eyes, half expecting to see tears of pain, he could see that they were shining wildly, the courtly lady, with her careful manipulations of his mind, lost.  
  
Boromir cried out as his seed shot into her, and leaned into his hands, which were on either side of her head. She cried aloud too, half from the pain and half from the pleasure. The lovers remained entangled within each other's arms, regaining their breath  
  
Boromir caressed her face gently. "I love you, my Rose."  
  
She looked up at him, still radiantly beautiful with loose strands of her dark sweat-soaked hair plastered to her back, her cheeks, her forehead.  
  
"I love you, Boro."  
  
He pulled himself out of her, leaving her sprawled on the bed as he took a few more breaths. Turning back to his wife, she pushed a wet rope out of his face and behind his ear. He nuzzled her hand against his cheek, and she laughed wearily. Boromir eased himself beside her, pulling the coverlet over them both.  
  
"Get some sleep, Rhos." She nestled closer to him, and he laid an arm over her hips, both of them drifting away in soft sleep's embrace.  
  
--  
  
Boromir awoke with a start as the sun peeped over the windowsill, half blinding him. A cock crowed, and he realized something.  
  
"Rhos! Rhoswen!" he sat up, shaking her, and she mumbled something and turned over, still sleeping. He kissed her ear, softly, and she awoke.  
  
"Boro, what is it?" she mumbled groggily.  
  
"My brother and uncle will be here soon, I fear."  
  
Rhoswen's eyes widened. "Whatever for?"  
  
At the glance from Boromir at the crimson stain on the sheets, Rhoswen's lips formed an O and she nodded.  
  
"I need a bath." She said, carefully inspecting her legs, somewhat macabre painted with her blood and whitish fluid. She rose, silhouetting herself against the sun, conjuring an image in Boromir's head of the huntress goddess caught by the warrior in the woods while at her bath, so beautiful, and wild. She gathered up a sheet, wrapping it around herself and walking to the bath, her hips swaying beneath the make-do covering.  
  
No sooner had she shut the door than there was a loud knocking on the grand doors to their chambers, and his uncle's muffled voice echoing through the wooden barrier.  
  
"Nephew?! Are you and your radiant bride decent?"  
  
Boromir grabbed his pants and slipped into them, shouting back through the door as he laced them up. "Yes, Uncle! Come in!"  
  
The lock turned, and Imrahil entered, followed by Denethor, tottering along on his cane with the help of Faramir.  
  
"The men of the house have come to see if your marriage has been consummated, Lord Boromir." The prince of Dol Amroth said, his voice formal. Boromir gestured a hand at the bed, and Faramir darted over, lifting up the coverlet. Boromir saw his brother suppress a smile. Faramir regained his sense of propriety, and nodded, his face blank.  
  
"There is maiden blood on the sheets, uncle. The marriage has been consumed."  
  
Denethor and Imrahil nodded sagely, and Faramir looked at his brother, his lips curling into a smile.  
  
"So, my good lord brother, did you bed her well?"  
  
"That I did, Faramir. Attend, she comes." Boromir cocked his head at the now opening door. Heads turned to look at Rhoswen, now suitably attired in a modest blue dress. She blushed a little as the men stared at her, looking down at her hands, smoothing folds in her dress that weren't there, hiding her face. Boromir barked at his uncle and brother.  
  
"I would ask you remove your eyes from my lady wife, kinsmen." Faramir turned his head, stifling a laugh. Boromir must be telling the truth, for her to blush so. Denethor bowed stiffly to Rhoswen, who inclined her head.  
  
With an unbending air in his voice, he said "Good morrow to the new wife."  
  
"Good morrow to you, honored father."  
  
"I trust my son bedded you well?" he asked, his smile stodgy and endearing at the same instant. Rhoswen blushed.  
  
"I cannot tell a lie..." she said, the blood rising in her cheeks again. Imrahil stifled a laugh, and Denethor nodded approvingly.  
  
"You have another week, Captain...then I expect you to return to your duties as Steward and councilor to the king. If you will excuse us, we are going to fetch Lord Elrond and attend to the matter of his daughter's recent nuptials." The three men bowed and exited. Boromir turned to his wife; she was smiling at him.  
  
"Why did you say that?"  
  
"Twas better than you adding later that you had been six miles into the Langstrand, husband. It was bound to come up sooner or later. I might as well tell them the truth. I am a married woman now-let others bother with propriety." She said, pulling him closer. Boromir smiled at his wife.  
  
"Why did you get dressed, when you know I will undress you just as soon?"  
  
"All the more fun for you, Boro." She smiled coyly. "But let us eat. The maids have delivered breakfast, and I know you are hungry from your exertions yester eve."

* * *

You can shoot me later- Review now! 


	21. It is my Duty

I don't own it, and if I did, my last name would be Tolkien, not Gray. Enough said.

* * *

"The castle at Fornost is a grand place, though not as big, per se, as Minas Tirith. Carpenters, stonemasons, architects-they've all been dispatched to make the place livable again, as no one has formally inhabited the palace since the days of Arnor of old." Aragorn looked out the window for a moment, a light of triumph in his eyes.  
  
"I wish Fornost to be the White city of the North, a city of light, and beauty and music, as it was when the kings of old first built it-I wish to rebuild a city for the ages...Oh come now, Boromir, don't look so glum. If it's me you want to see, then you shall have to look forward to the royal progress. Then you'll have to put up with my entire household for a month, at least." Aragorn was looking at some carefully drawn plans for city rebuilding with Boromir. Well, truth be told, the King was reading the plans and the Steward was pacing.  
  
"Yes, I know. It's not I'm going to miss the city...I saw my father nearly burn to death here, for heaven's sakes, and there are too many evil memories in these walls for me to count, or even recall. Happy ones, too, but...all the same, it is still dark and desolate. When Rhoswen visits with my messages, I hope to hear about small children's voices in the corridors. It has been too long since there were children in these halls." Aragorn looked up from his plans and laughed.  
  
"So you're going to use your wife as a message carrier?"  
  
"No...it is only that she will miss the city more than I, and will come back to visit her godchildren, and nieces and nephews, and talk with her sisters, as women are wont. I shall only ask that when she does, she bring news and royal correspondence to and from the tower of the sun." Boromir stopped looking out the window, and looked at his king.  
  
"Aragorn, does my conduct displease you in some way? Is there some wrong for which I should bear penance? Why do you exile me to the Northland?"  
  
"It is not exile, and I am loath to let you leave. Haradrim revolts grow more constant in the south, and the Dunlenders to the east grow restless with peace treaty talks. A second war is brewing, and the gods in heaven know I could use you, but there is not enough land in Gondor for three princes-for, good friend, you are a prince to me, and always have been- and the Dunedain need a good leader. They will only follow some one I have chosen, a man for my brother, a man for my friend, in confidence and high in my favor, and you are the man. I want you not far from my eyes...but, I have eyes enough." Aragorn set the plans aside, and turned to place his hands on Boromir's slightly slumped shoulders. The younger man looked into his eyes at the touch.  
  
"The palantir at Fornost was lost for some time, but it is untainted, and with it, you may call upon me, for news or summons. Boromir, you still have six months, and I have it on good authority from your wife that your firstborn will come into the world in that short space of time."  
  
"Why am I the last to know these things? Rhoswen will tell the king, but not her husband?" Aragorn chuckled at the frazzled Steward.  
  
"She never has time. When you drop into bed, you're too tired to even talk to her."  
  
"Time? She had time enough to inform you, and you are always in council-"  
  
Aragorn cut him off. "-With you, and if it please you, she told Arwen." Both men shook their heads.  
  
"Women. How is it I could not see my wife is so near her time?" Boromir mused quietly.  
  
"Come, Steward of Arnor, the council reconvenes from midday meal, and we must be there. The Haradric ambassador will be presenting his case."

* * *

Unlike the rest of the city, scorching in the midday mugginess of high summer, the council chamber in the heart of the city, deep within stone walls, was cold and silent as council members filed back in, taking their seats around the wooden table. The table had been a gift from the Shirefolk, who had built it with traditional loving hobbit care on the behest of Pippin, the new Thain. The table could seat fifteen, and not a space was left unfilled. Aragorn kept the head of the large table, with Boromir and Faramir on either side. By their sides were Éowyn, and Rhoswen, each with the excuse that if one wanted to ride off to war, one had to leave one's wife in charge, and wouldn't it be appropriate if she actually knew what she was doing?  
  
When the ambassador entered, and sat down, the rest of the council members sat a little easier in their seats. It was not noted that Rhoswen drew out a sheet of parchment, and poised her quill over it, ready to take observations.  
  
"Welcome to Gondor, ambassador Agrad. We of Minas Tirith are glad of your coming."  
  
"It is an honor to meet the newly crowned king, sire." The dark skinned ambassador bowed slightly, fingering the embroidery on the edge of his sleeve. Rhoswen could see he was nervous to be in the presence of the King, whose deeds and mastery of the forces of Mordor were quickly becoming song, and the twain sons of the steward, famed already in the south for their quests as well. It was enough history in the making to overwhelm any man.  
  
"We are here to discuss an agreement between the tribes of the Haradrim and Gondor dealing with the present state of affairs with Mordor."  
  
"Ahh yes. My chieftain sends his regrets that he cannot be here himself. May I see the offer?" Aragorn's clerk passed him a sheaf of papers, which he made the appearance of casually flicking through, his expression grave. When he spoke, his voice was strained.  
  
"I regret, sire, to say that this would nearly be impossible. My tribe has not nearly this much wealth, and our recent battles have left us short handed."  
  
Boromir looked the shifty man in the eyes, drawing up his full six feet.  
  
"And what of the military garrisons? Can those outposts be established?"  
  
The ambassador nodded; he was visibly shaking slightly.  
  
"Trade contracts must be negotiated." Faramir put in.  
  
"We are a simple people, my lord king. We care for watering rights...there is nothing of value for Gondor in Harad..." Éowyn looked across the table at him.  
  
"Horses. Harad has some of the finest stock in fast mounts. It is said that your mares are the daughters of the wind, with speed to match the Mearas-We require horses." The ambassador looked at Éowyn. His shaking smile vanished, replaced with a stony sneer.  
  
"I beg permission to leave." Aragorn stood, a frown on his normally impassive face.  
  
"Ambassador, may I inquire as to the occasion?"  
  
"In my country, it is a grievous offence to let women bare their faces in public, or participate in matters of state. I find it insulting that you let not only one woman here, but two. I realize that it is not your custom to have them cover their faces, but it is an offense, all the same." Boromir clenched a fist around his goblet stem; Rhoswen carefully pried the hand away and set the glass down, holding his large hand in both of her own.  
  
"You could have spoken of it earlier." Aragorn's voice was fighting to be level.  
  
"In my country, concubines of the chieftain may sit in the presence of a council, but are not permitted to speak. Women are weak; they bear our sons and daughters, and that is their purpose. They demand nothing!" Éowyn was about to stand, Faramir's hand holding her arm quite tightly to the table. The ambassador said something in a dangerously low voice, and left in a billow of embroidery. Éowyn was seething, breathing rather loudly through her nose.  
  
"What did he call me?" Her voice was clipped and curt, indicating all too well to Faramir that she was ready to kill the Ambassador.  
  
"He said that the mare should have been whipped." Faramir said in a low cautious voice, treading on thin ice with his wife.  
  
"Rohirrim though I am, I refuse to be referred to as a horse!" Faramir whispered in her ear, and she seemed to calm down enough for him to peck her hair. Aragorn took a breath, and looked at Rhoswen, and then at Éowyn.  
  
"You know what I must ask you to do."  
  
"Yes, and though I do not relish it, it is my duty. Come, sister. I think a brisk ride would do us both some good." Rhoswen squeezed Boromir's hand, and left in tow of a still sulking Éowyn.

* * *

Out on the Pelennor, Éowyn and Rhoswen had a talk, stepping off their horses to walk for a bit. The sounds of the busy city, along with those of various builders repairing the broken walls of the citadel still reached them out here.  
  
"It is good to see the restoration of the city coming along so well."  
  
"You did not bring me out here to talk about the city's rebuilding, did you?"  
  
"No...I brought you out here with the express purpose of talking about nothing." The two stood for a minute in silence, the only sound the muffled hammering and the whispers of the wind.  
  
"You know I am no lady, Rhos. I cannot stand by and let myself be insulted."  
  
"I do not ask it of you."  
  
"What do you ask of me?" Éowyn looked at her sister in law, turning to the woman with a sharp turn of her heel.  
  
"I ask for your help when my baby comes, as my sister and my friend. But if your patience is not with you, I will be happy to-"  
  
"Rhos, I would not miss the birth of my first nephew-" Éowyn told her sister in law, her voice reassuring.  
  
"Or niece, I know not whether it be a boy or girl." The younger woman looked at the shield maid with an amending eye.  
  
"Or niece." Éowyn corrected herself. She looked at Rhoswen, two years younger and married to a man twenty years her senior. "How do you do it?"  
  
"How do I do what, Éowyn?"  
  
Eowyn stopped herself and changed her question.  
  
"Stand being married to the most pigheaded man on the face of the earth? And then bear his children!" Rhoswen laughed, and Éowyn laughed with her- Boromir wasn't pigheaded, and both of them knew it-Éowyn had meant it in jest.  
  
"Ahh, well, I can be as pig headed as him, but he's gotten better now that I'm carrying the next of his line." She patted her stomach. "But I do wish I could tell if it is a boy or a girl..."

* * *

Arwen knocked on the door to Rhoswen's solar and walked in to giggles as Éowyn watched a string with Rhoswen's wedding ring tied to the end dangle over Rhos' full, stretched stomach.  
  
"What is going on in here?" The queen of Gondor and Arnor inquired.  
  
"We are attempting to discern whether the child Rhoswen carries is a male or a female." Éowyn said with a degree of comic pompousness. Rhoswen laughed, and Arwen, looking at the rounded woman lying on her bed with her wedding ring dangling above her unborn child had to concede that it was indeed comical.  
  
"So what has the ring to do with anything?"  
  
"Oh well, if it spins, it's a boy, and if it swings, it's a girl...and the string doesn't seem to want to make up it's mind." Éowyn stated matter-of- factly. Rhoswen was watching the string when she suddenly let out an exited 'Ooh!' The two women turned to look at Rhoswen, who put a hand to her swollen belly.  
  
"Be they boy or girl, this child can kick! Here, Arwen...put your hand just there." She laid the queen's hand on her stomach, and ever so gently, the Queen felt a push on her hand. She looked at the womb, amazed.  
  
"Never in all my years have I felt so close to life." Arwen held out a hand as Rhoswen got up off her bed, putting a hand hastily to her back.  
  
"Ahh, well, you'll feel a lot closer when you find you've got the next prince of Gondor growing inside you. Carry a child for nine months and it'll do something to you." She made to sit down in her favorite chair. "Ohh, my back. Éowyn, could you be a dear and get me a-" She hadn't even finished her sentence when Éowyn handed her a pillow, which she laid behind her back. "-Pillow. You are a dear."  
  
"No, I'm remembering that every time you sit down in a chair, you ask for a cushion-more specifically, that particular cushion."  
  
"Well, this pillow's been well broken in. And pregnant women are picky. I expect the kitchens are fed up with me asking for broth made from herbs that grow only in Anfalas."  
  
"It is said that the lady Finduilas couldn't eat anything without first smelling it when she was pregnant with Aerwyn. Or so Faramir remembers." Éowyn said, smiling.  
  
"Speaking of the lady Aerwyn, where is she? I crave a word with her." Rhoswen made to get up, but both women put a hand on her arms, and she sat back down.  
  
"I shall find her. If she be not swinging a sword with the Rangers down in the yards, she's probably in her room again." Éowyn got up and left, closing the door quietly behind her-Rhoswen's hearing had become a bit sharper in the past few months.  
  
Several minutes later, Aerwyn and Éowyn crept back in to Rhoswen's solar, where the young woman was waiting expectantly, her hands folded over her enlarged abdomen.  
  
"Arwen, Aerwyn, I've already asked Éowyn to help with the birth of my firstborn, and I'd like both of you to be there as well. It would mean a great deal to me, as I have no sisters. Will you do me this honor?" Rhoswen gazed at the faces of her sister in law and queen. Aerwyn spoke first.  
  
"Rhoswen, I would not miss the birth of my first nephew and my brother's firstborn for all the gold in Gondor. Life is too precious to let it go unattended, and I would never forgive myself for not being there when you needed my help most."  
  
"Nor I. You have been a most endearing friend, Rhoswen, throughout my small stay here, and I would not miss your firstborn for the world. He-or she, will be the next in line for the throne after Boromir, and after the children I hope to have someday."  
  
"Please, don't burden my child with important things he or she will have to live out someday. My back aches already with this little life."

* * *

As the knocking on the door grew more and more impatient, Éowyn flew from her bed to open it, knowing exactly why and who was knocking at an odd hour of the night.  
  
The page at the door was out of breath, having run from the other end of the wing to the Steward's chambers.  
  
"Lady ...Rhoswen...has gone into labor and requests your presence...immediately." The young man gasped for breath as Éowyn processed this.  
  
"Tell the lady Rhoswen I'll be with her as soon as I may." The page scampered off down the hall.  
  
Faramir, getting up to see why his wife was standing at the door, quickly lit a candle so his wife could change out of her nightgown and into something a little more appropriate for a birth. Éowyn, still tying up her dress's strings, pecked her husband on the cheek and flew down the hall. Stopping at the doors to Rhoswen's chambers, she finished tying her dress and steeled herself for a long night.  
  
"So it begins..."

* * *

HAHAH! A cliffhanger at the worst spot it could possibly be! I am evil, aren't I? But I'll bet that I answered the question every one was dieing to know about **after** those doors closed. _cheeky grin_ If you wanted the morning after, read 'But in Dreams'  
  
**Shout outs-  
**  
DJ Sparkles- YAY! You read the rest of it! Aww...thank you. It's the little tiny corner of Mercury that goes into every one of them that makes them real.  
  
Dread Lady Freya- Can't compete with Angoliel's last shout out...I'm sorry! _breaks down in tears_ Yes, it definitely would be due to previous experiences with rings-one in particular comes to mind, involving lots of arrows and a brush with death...Anywhay. Song was not mine. It's a spiritual.  
  
I have a question.  
  
Why is it that you fear Angoliel more than you do me, The Reverend Mother? As you may recall, Humble one, it is I who gave Angoliel her courage to give you such words as she does. Remember this.  
  
Orli's Babe- Ehh... Boromir babes, all the way. You really should consider changing your name. It's obvious to us of the Boromir fangirl elitist movement that you really want to join! _Smiles_


	22. The Most Glorious of Gifts

I don't own it, though Tolkien's ghost knows I want to. Now if the ectoplasmic incarnation of my favorite author could somehow cede it to me...  
  
THERE, ARE YOU ALL HAPPY? THE END OF THE CLIFFHANGER! It's had you on the edge of your seats, I'm sure...

* * *

Éowyn pushed open the door to a slightly less chaotic scene than she had expected. Rhoswen's breathing was coming in short, agitated spurts while Boromir, ever the vigilant husband, sat by her side, the former holding his hand tightly, a whiteness in his skin surrounding her fingers. Éowyn looked around, and summoned over one of the maids, who stood off to the side looking scared. The shield maid immediately took charge, addressing the maids.  
  
"Go to the houses of healing and ask for a midwife-tell them we're expecting the next of the line of Húrin and they'll send someone. You," she pointed to another maid, "Go to the kitchens and ask them to boil some water. Get some fresh towels and bring the water up here. Boromir." She turned to her brother in law, guiding him away from his wife and out the door. The tall man made to protest, but she pushed him out into the hall.  
  
"I'm sorry, Boromir, but I cannot have you in here. Men only get underfoot in women's business, and birthing is as womanly as business can get. Don't worry, Rhoswen is in perfectly capable hands, and your sister should be here soon, along with Queen Arwen." Éowyn gave him a pat on the shoulder and shut the door, leaving Boromir out in the hallway with no company but the candles and his rather confused and unorganized thoughts.  
  
Aerwyn came fifteen minutes later, with Arwen in close pursuit. Aerwyn took one look at her brother, who was sitting with his back to the wall with his head in his hands and resisted the urge to laugh.  
  
"Come...children wait for no one." Arwen gently whispered, sheparding Aerwyn inside, again leaving Boromir in the empty hallway.

* * *

A grueling hour later, all Boromir had for comfort that his wife was still on this earth was the very unsettling sound of screams of pain. He paced the hall like a man possessed, his hair sticking out at odd angles from the number of times he'd run his finders through it.  
  
Sitting back down on the floor, he leaned against the wall again, his thoughts running through his head like so many horses run on a plain- unchained and unchecked and rather hard to keep track of.  
  
"I'm the reason she screams, he thought. I gave her this pain. Why me? What possessed me to do it? Why did I hurt her so?"  
  
Another voice answered. "Love possessed you, Steward. But for her pain, she gives you a priceless gift-a child. Doubt not your wisdom in these things- is it not for you question human nature and the normalcy of such things as pass between a man and a woman. Calm yourself." Boromir shook his head, cradling it in his large hands.  
  
"How can I be calm when my wife and child stand next to death?" He moaned aloud. Faramir, passing by with a tray laden with what looked to be breakfast, slid down to sit next to his brother, laying the tray along side.  
  
"Will you not eat something, Boro? You've had little sleep and too much stress. You need your strength."  
  
"I can't eat when I know Rhos suffers and I am at fault."  
  
"She chose to have this child, too. Now, please, eat some thing. Or go get some rest-My room is open should you wish to catch some sleep. And please, brother...do not worry yourself sick-Rhoswen is strong. She will survive." He glanced at his brother, got up, and left, shaking his head. How Boromir reminded him of Father sometimes...  
  
Boromir didn't touch the tray-it remained sitting next to him, as if anticipating hungry hands to sweep down and devour it's contents. Every time a maid opened the heavy door to let herself out, Boromir was given an earful of his heir's birthing pains, but nothing more; none of the maids said anything. They all gave the Steward of Arnor the most condescending of looks, shaking their heads at his trepidation. As the sun climbed higher, the situation didn't change much.  
  
After what seemed like an age, Arwen emerged from Rhoswen's chambers, and after her, Aerwyn, wiping her bloody hands on a cloth. The sun had mounted the sky, nearly to its zenith, and Boromir had failed to notice that Rhoswen's screaming had ceased. Now there was an almost contented air of silence. He got up, now noticing the lack of noise, and looked at his sister for answers.  
  
"How is she? What has happened? How is she?" Aerwyn looked at him, smiling with a secret knowledge of something Boromir had yet to find out.  
  
"Go to her and see yourself." Boromir blanched, but pushed open the doors to his rooms with a strong hand, never hoping for what his eyes found there.  
  
A faint smell of athelas hung in the air, wafting from the bowl at the bedside in which a cloth was seeping. There was Rhoswen, her sable locks drenched in sweat, laid across her pillow in wet ropes, her face going from red back to it's normal color, and in her arms the most glorious of gifts.

* * *

Boromir ran down the hall, the doors flying open before him as he barreled through, the last set nearly bouncing off the walls at the force. Aragorn stood as his Steward ran in, breathless but elated beyond anything Aragorn had ever seen before. Boromir smiled broadly and his voice boomed in the council chamber.  
  
"I have twins!"

* * *

Don't worry; this isn't the end of the chapter. This is the part of the story where I hold up the sigh from Shrek that says 'Awwwww..." and we all collectively follow what the sign says and say 'Awwwww..."  
  
...Moving on now...

* * *

The councilmen all got up to clap Boromir on the back and offer their congratulations to the new father. Aragorn pulled his Steward into a tight embrace.  
  
"No go spend time with your wife and your wonderful children. The rest of the city shall know of the birth of their Steward's heir soon enough." Boromir smiled again, breathless, and then nearly ran back to his rooms to coo over the little pieces of life that he had helped create.

* * *

Boromir ran one calloused finger over the brow of one of his children, looking at the child with tender eyes. Rhoswen looked at her husband, smiling. Had she not known that he would be a wonderful father?  
  
"Our children are still in need names, Boromir. I was thinking perhaps we could name the girl after your mother?" Rhoswen looked at her husband expectantly, looking for a reaction as he looked from his new daughter, to his newborn son. Both so small, so delicate...  
  
"Finduilas is to big a name for such a little girl. I will not name either of my wonderful children after any one who has a legacy to live up to. I want each of them to make repute for themselves. Besides, she does not look at all to me like a Finduilas." Boromir looked from each of his children's faces to the doors, upon which someone had just knocked. Aerwyn peeked around the door.  
  
"Your father and sister here to see you and your children, Boromir. May we come in?" Boromir nodded. Aerwyn pushed the door open so Denethor could limp in, his cane carrying the weight his broken leg could not. Aerwyn pulled up a chair next to Boromir, letting her father sink into it.  
  
"So this is our new mother? Ahh, Rhoswen, they are beautiful. Boromir, my son, you have been blessed with a wonderful wife." Denethor looked at his eldest, Boromir's face wreathed in smiles of joy as he gazed at his wife and his two perfect children.  
  
"And because of my wonderful and beautiful wife, two wonderful and beautiful children are also mine. Are they not perfect, Father?" Boromir looked at his son and daughter again, proud, as a new father should be. Denethor looked at his son, always the warrior, cold and unyielding, and now a father, full of love and compassion and warmth for these new lives that his wife held in her arms, and his face broke into a smile.  
  
"May a grandfather ask to hold his grandson for a moment?" Denethor looked at Rhoswen, who nodded, and handed her son to her father-in-law with light hands. Denethor looked into his grandson's eyes, gray like both of his parents', and to the little nose, the little lips, the tiny fingers that curled themselves with amazing strength around one of their grandsire's fingers. Denethor laughed, and carefully peeled the little fingers back, handing the child back to his mother.  
  
"Have you thought of names?"  
  
"Rhoswen wants to name her after Mother, but this one doesn't seem like a Finduilas to me." Boromir looked at his father to see the reaction; Denethor nodded his head in agreement.  
  
"She's not a Finduilas-I agree. I'll leave you two here. Congratulations-to the both of you." Denethor tottered out, with some support from his daughter. A few minutes later, Faramir popped his head around the door.  
  
"I want to see my niece and nephew! Éowyn's been singing about them for the last half an hour, and I need to see for myself. Rhoswen, you and your children are beautiful." Rhoswen chuckled, and kissed her brother-in-law on the cheek.  
  
"I'm sure your children will be just as beautiful, Faramir. If not more so. Here, hold her." Rhoswen handed Faramir the little girl, and with inexperienced hands, the new uncle attempted to get a closer look at his niece. She gazed up at him with wide eyes, and experimentally raised a hand to grab at Faramir's hair. She yanked the lock of sandy blonde, and Faramir winced as several hairs dislodged themselves from his scalp. The baby waved the hairs around, laughing and cooing, her tiny lips breaking into a smile. Faramir could not help but smile too, and handed the child back to her mother.  
  
"May I suggest that when you name that one it be something along the lines of strong and mighty?" Faramir's comment elicited a laugh from all assembled parties.  
  
"I rather like the name Gilraen..." Rhoswen looked at her daughter, thoughtful.  
  
"That's the name of Aragorn's mother." Boromir corrected her.  
  
"What's the name of Aragorn's mother?" The King knocked on the open door, finally having gotten out of his meetings to greet the newest additions to the line of Húrin.  
  
"Boromir refuses to name our daughter or son after anyone who might have a name to live up to." Rhoswen told Aragorn. The king nodded.  
  
"An interesting choice, not without merit. It is the custom of the elves not to give two children the same name. I'll leave you two in peace. Ah- HEM!" Aragorn cleared his throat rather loudly, looking pointedly at the Prince of Ithilien, signaling Faramir that it was time to go. Faramir kissed the foreheads of his niece and nephew, and left Rhoswen and Boromir to the peace and relative quiet of their rooms.

* * *

Aerwyn knocked on Faramir's doorframe, looking with despair at her brother's slumped figure.  
  
"What ails you, brother? It is women who suffer after the birth, not the men." She laid a hand on his shoulder and sat down.  
  
"My brother scared me, Aerwyn-I've never seen him so distraught except when you were born. He waited all day with Father, hoping against hope that mother would be able to give us our sister and live to see another one of the sunrises she loved so much...that she wouldn't leave and neither would you. Seeing him sitting there in the hall like that, he reminded me of Father-back when he wasn't always wearing black.  
  
'And then after all the waiting you, little sister came into the world, dear, dear Aerwyn, and a happier pair of brothers you couldn't find anywhere for love or gold. Seeing Rhoswen, and those little bundles of life curled up at her breast...brought back so many memories of happier times." Faramir bit back a sniffle and a tear, and Aerwyn leaned next to her brother, a comforting arm around his shoulders.  
  
"I'm sorry about mother, Fara," Aerwyn said, but the older man brushed it away.  
  
"You remind Father so much of Mama-that's why he loves you and cherishes you as he does. Because he lost a part of himself when she died and he found it again in you. And I was so scared that Boromir would loose Rhoswen and be left without his love or any children to fill that empty space...this family has had too much grief to bear in these past years." Faramir's eyes were wet with tears, and Aerwyn with a corner of her sleeve wiped her older brother's glistening cheeks.  
  
"Rhoswen lives, as do her children-you've seen them, and Boromir cannot hope for two more perfect little lives to foster and care for. Now dry your eyes, brother. I don't want Éowyn to know my brother is a sentimental one." Aerwyn managed to get her brother to crack a smile, and gave him a hug. "I love you, Faramir." She gathered her skirts and left, leaving Faramir to dry his tears and compose himself.

* * *

Rhoswen awoke with a small cry, breathless but exhilarated, as if she'd just found the inspiration of the solution to a time tempered problem that had long lain in the dusty vaults of memory.  
  
Boromir wasn't sleeping very well, on account of his self imposed exile to the couch in their rooms, and he awoke rather suddenly from his fitful sleeping with his wife's voice, fearful that some complication of the birth had stayed her breath or that some vengeful soul had caused her harm.  
  
"Rhoswen? What is it? You should be sleeping."  
  
"Boromir, I've thought of our children's names!" Her eyes were filled with exited light, and Boromir could not help but chuckle at her joyfulness at so early an hour. He got up groggily, leaving his blanket on the couch and getting up to sit behind her, cradling her sable head in his lap.  
  
"What did your dreams suggest, then?"  
  
"Aidian, and Eilionnoir. Aren't they beautiful?" Rhoswen said with a sigh  
  
"Foreign, but lovely, all the same." He thought for a moment. "Just as you once were here, my love. Aidian and Eilionnoir it is then." Boromir kissed her cheek, savoring the smell of her skin, faint of roses and the athelas leaves her 'sisters' had bathed her cheeks with as she labored. He went to look at the cradle in the corner of the room, where both children were sleeping soundly without a care in the world. So small, so easily broken, so precious was new life, Boromir thought to himself. He sighed, and went back to his couch, pulling the blanket around his chin and going back to sleep, not mush sounder than before.

* * *

More Awwww time now...  
  
Okay, sappy time is over. Shouts outs now!  
  
Dread Lady Freya- The Reverend Mother accepts your apologies and offers her regrets about the lady's recent tribulations, and hopes she finds her fortress keys with all due speed. She also asks that the Lady go back to her traditional state of address, as the Reverend Mother enjoys reading them ever so much more. And I'm truly sorry-Eodoram and I have a system in which she gets him one weekend and I get him the next. Talk to her about it.  
  
Angoliel- I concede; we are on even footing then, comrade? You have might, and I wisdom, and the two go hand in hand.  
  
Terreis-SORRY! It's part of my evil plan to get more people to come back and review! I'm so close I can taste the 100 mark.  
  
Lady of the Dog Star- THANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOU! You left oodles and oodles of loverly reviews. And don't fret; you're not the first person to have issues with my formatting. It'll be my project for over the summer, to go back and edit so it's easier to read.  
  
Lúthien-glad you liked it. And I'm touched you like my methods...I try to go against the grain.  
  
Roisin Dubh- I fixed and added some stuff due to your comment-Nice job on goading me! _big smile_ And now that you mention it...that may come up in the next few chapters.  
  
Sailor Taichichi Vegeta-Everyone seems to think that calls for some ambassador bashing...it's coming.  
  
Eodoram-Like I said-It's coming. Lots of verbal putting out planned for Ambassador Agrad. _chuckles_ 'I think Éowyn should take the ambassador down...'  
  
Merrymagic26- THANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOU for the loverly reviews...another new reader who flooded my box with like nine in one day! _big hug_Glad you're liking it-Know you haven't gotten this far, but anywhay....And if you're still confused, email me. I likes emails, precious, I does. 


	23. Give the Devil his due

Here it is- THE FIGHT SCENE! Bloody well time, too...Fanfic was down yesterday, otherwise it would have been up yesterday.  
  
Lots of love to Angoliel, who helped loads and even put up with my refusal to change the name of Boro's sis...I love you!  
  
Don't own it, will never own it...see previous for disclaimers.

* * *

Boromir, Steward of Arnor and Prince of the Northland, peered over the city of his birth, smiling. Gradually, the scars from the battle of the Pelennor fields were melting back into the city as newer stone carved from the heart of the mountains rebuilt the city. There was a rustling of skirts from behind him, and he turned to see Éowyn. He smiled, inclining his head in greeting to his brother's new wife.  
  
"Good afternoon, Brother. Will you join me for a walk? Faramir is in council again, and I desire company. This city is lonely with out a friend to walk with, and I am still a stranger here." She said, in lieu of an apology. Boromir nodded.  
  
"The lady wife of my brother should not feel an alien in her husband's city. I will walk with you."  
  
They strode quietly through the corridors, neither caring much to say anything. Eventually, their feet lead them to the open windows that over looked the gardens on the level below. There was a soft cooing, and Éowyn smiled.  
  
"I think we've found Rhoswen, Boromir." Both of them crossed to the other side of the hallway to pass into the walled courtyard.  
  
Boromir looked over the gardens, savoring the smell of newly grown leaves, just opening buds. The gardens were a riot of color, bright green leaves and flowers of every shade over-spilling in untamed clumps. His eyes slid over the gardens with pride, but not half as much satisfaction filled his heart as when he saw Rhoswen, sitting in the shade of an apple tree, cooing over their twin children in their basket on the bench next to her.  
  
Éowyn left his side to go coo over the two little ones with her. Rhoswen looked up as her sister in law laid a hand on her shoulder, looking across the garden and smiling at her husband.  
  
Someone cleared his throat behind him, and Boromir turned to see Ambassador Agrad peering intently at the two women.  
  
"Ambassador," Boromir said curtly, coldly, turning back to look at the flowers. He disliked the man intensely; he had ever since the day in council when he had openly invoked Éowyn's anger in saying that women were weak. Ever since then, the weasel-like man had made sure that all women were banned from council meetings, and sneered at the slightest mention of any praise to the women of Minas Tirith.  
  
"Look at them-throwing away all sense of age at a child." He scoffed. Boromir's nostrils flared as he took a deep breath through his nose, turning to the Ambassador.  
  
"What is it that makes you so cold? In Gondor, a child is a thing to celebrate, a new life that needs to be cared for, yet you treat the matter as if you were talking of breeding sheep." His voice was low, trying not to let his wife overhear.  
  
The ambassador chuckled.  
  
"I am sorry, my lord...I forget that in Gondor, a man has only one wife by which he may sire children...In Harad, a man may take many wives, and so may have many children...it makes no difference when another is born."  
  
"We do not treat our women like cattle in Gondor, Ambassador...perhaps that is why we do not get along." Boromir said carefully.  
  
"Perhaps." the ambassador smiled silkily. "Or perhaps it is that you desire a lifestyle like the one I lead...surrounded by beautiful woman, and a choice on who to take to bed each night." His eyes glittered, snakelike. He knew he had touched a nerve.  
  
"You said when we first met that women are weak," Boromir said, his voice rising. "Perhaps it is so in Harad, where they allow themselves to be treated like livestock, but in Gondor it is not so. Your women hide behind their veils; ours do not. Ours seek reknown on the field of battle. Look you-that woman is Éowyn, and if you have listened to the harpers in our halls, she killed the lord of Nazgul, a task no mere man could do. The woman next to her-that is my lady wife. This week past she labored many hours to birth my two fine children,"  
  
The ambassador scoffed. "Women bear our children, nothing more...just as your wife does..." he smiled his snakelike grin again, and Boromir's temper flamed.  
  
"Look you well on that face, sire and you will see there the brunt of a burden that many of your men will not see in their entire lives. She waited dutifully for nearly a year for my return from the Quest to Mount Doom, and took her burden silently as she was brought news of my supposed demise, keeping her head tall so our people would not lose faith. She was not trained for that-but she was not sheltered to it, either."  
  
The Ambassador was at a loss for words. Éowyn and Rhoswen, who had been listening intently to Boromir, stared at the two men, wondering who would speak next. The ambassador smiled shakily.  
  
"You must also recall that when I first met you I said something concerning the discipline of women...perhaps your women are in need of more of it if they ride with your men. It does not do to have a wild concubine in the bedchamber."  
  
Éowyn stood and strode over to the ferret like man, glaring at him.  
  
"My husband is not here to restrain me this time, Ambassador, and I should very much like to rip you limb from limb to limb for that comment. If you think that Gondorian woman will be insulted like this, think again. I challenge you to a duel, for my honor and that of every woman in this kingdom. We are not treated like stud mares as yours are, and I for one refuse to be insulted for it!"  
  
Now the ambassador was scared, backing up a little in the formidable face of Éowyn Wraithbane.  
  
"Your challenge is accepted." He said, his voice straining not to tremble.  
  
"And don't expect to win, Ambassador-I am a shield maiden of Rohan, and no mere weakling stranger with a sword. Meet me in two hours in the practice courts." She swiveled on her heel and left, blonde hair flowing free behind her.

* * *

Faramir ran to catch up with his brother, lower councilors milling around the doors to the king's study.  
  
"Boromir, the word in the halls is that my dear wife has challenged the Ambassador Agrad to a duel..."  
  
"It was coming sooner or later." The elder brother said shortly, not wanting to miss any of the action as he strode purposefully towards the practice courts. Faramir's expression turned incredulous.  
  
"You mean to tell me it's true?"  
  
"Yes, I do, brother, and if we hurry, we can see your wife finish off that weasel." Boromir growled.  
  
"But that would only serve to strain relations between the tribes and Gondor!"  
  
"Faramir, think about this for a moment. Since the day he arrived, our dear friend the ambassador has insulted our women at every chance he can. Éowyn is making him pay back in blood."

* * *

The two brothers arrived in time to see Éowyn beginning her stretches, a small crowd gathering around the fenced yard. Faramir and Boromir pushed their way through the crowd, stepping to the side of the fence. Éowyn hefted her sword a few times, slicing the air with a sharp 'fwoop'. She saw her husband, and rushed over to give him a quick peck on the cheek.  
  
"Éowyn, dear, the men are saying that you-" his wife cut Faramir off mid sentence.  
  
"Challenged our good friend the ambassador to a trial by sword?- They told you right. And here he comes now..." she turned to gaze with eagle eyes at her opponent, who had in his two hours swapped his long robes for a pair of loose fitting trousers and a tunic without sleeves, showing off his lean arms. A curved sword with a jeweled hilt hung at his waist from an elaborate scabbard. Éowyn tied her hair back in a tail, letting it hang down her back, a golden mane.  
  
Boromir felt a scuffling behind him, turning his head a fraction to see his sister standing impatiently at his elbow.  
  
"Brother, what is happening? I was practicing when some pages told me to clear the yards for a formal challenge. Who is it?"  
  
"The good Ambassador and our Lady of Ithilien have been spoiling for a duel, and Agrad pushed Éowyn a little over the edge this time while not in the presence of Faramir..."  
  
"And so my lady sister challenged the rat to a duel? Excellent! Let him have his due..." she whispered malevolently, her eyes glittering. "I think I shall enjoy watching this, brother!"  
  
The ambassador unsheathed his sword, and the two began to circle, catlike. Jeers came from the crowd. The Gondorian soldiers who had been training earlier began to hoot in favor of their Captain's wife. Éowyn smirked at the nearly scared look the ambassador had on his lips at the overwhelming support for his opponent, savoring the rabbit fear in his eyes when one choice shout of "Run him through, Wraithbane" came from the crowd.  
  
Suddenly he lunged, thrusting at her legs to knock her back. Éowyn merely leapt to the side easily as he fell forward.  
  
The soldiers laughed as he dusted himself off. "Tanglefoot!" one jeered. His eyes narrowed, and he lunged again, this time blade meeting blade; but he had been too far away, and Éowyn shoved him off easily.  
  
This time, Éowyn lunged, aiming for his ribs. Agrad had to jump back a little so he could reach her attack. Her blows came fast, almost too fast; he barely caught the steel edge before it sliced him through. Her snarls as she lunged unnerved him. He was not used to Rohirric warriors, least of all female ones, light on their feet, thinking of strategy as only a woman can.  
  
He staggered backwards, coming close to Aerwyn and accidentally laying a hand on her hip to support himself.  
  
"I beg your pardon! Kindly remove your hand, sir!" she sneered. Aerwyn knew it had been an accident, but the opportunity was too good to miss. Feigning a frown, she stared down the ambassador. He merely smirked.  
  
"I wish my hand had lain there in another place, fair maid," he said, thinking the woman merely a serving woman passing by. He pushed himself back into the ring, back to the mercies of Éowyn's still strong sword arm. But Aerwyn could see that she was tiring. A quick glance at Faramir's worried face laid aside Aerwyn's guessing as to why. She looked at Éowyn, who met her eyes and nodded.  
  
Aerwyn stepped into the ring of people, and laid a hand on Éowyn's shoulder.  
  
"Allow me sister-I am not expecting, and I daresay you are making my brother ill." Éowyn smiled and nodded, looking at Faramir, who deflated visibly as he let his tense breath out.  
  
Aerwyn turned to face the ambassador, carefully swinging her sword in circles.  
  
"Who is this?" Agrad cried in annoyance. Boromir smirked, calling above the crowd.  
  
"Ambassador, I'd like you to meet my lady sister, Aerwyn. Another woman of Gondor not unfamiliar with a sword."  
  
The ambassador smiled falsely and continued his attack, but Aerwyn, fresh from her practice, got to him quicker, her blows falling faster and faster. Several times he stumbled on his own feet, the last time too hard to get up quickly. His cheek hit the dusty dirt floor of the yard, and he looked up to see the tip of Aerwyn's blade at his throat, ready to make one quick slice and end him. He swallowed nervously.  
  
"Do you submit, Ambassador?"  
  
He was silent. The blade moved closer to his neck, making a long, shallow cut in his dusky skin.  
  
"Ambassador, either you say that you surrender this combat or I will be forced to kill you, something I do not relish doing. Again, do you submit?"  
  
Agrad swallowed nervously, and stuttered a yes.  
  
"Now, Ambassador, what lesson have you learned today?" Aerwyn asked good naturedly, making no move to sheath her sword, keeping it at the man's throat. He was silent. "We have a saying here in Gondor, one you would be advised to follow-When in Rohan, do as the Rohirrim do. You will respect our customs while here in Gondor, and when our emissaries visit the tents of your chieftain, we shall be sure to observe yours."  
  
Aerwyn moved her blade away from his throat, offering a hand to help the man up. He pushed it away, a hand massaging his cut. Aerwyn shrugged, smiling. She raised her sword to the sky, eliciting a hurrah from the onlookers. Éowyn rushed to embrace her sister. When the two parted, Éowyn smiled off to the side of the courts, where Rhoswen stood, holding the twins' basket. Aerwyn pushed through the crowd to look at her niece and nephew, both staring up at their aunt with wide eyes.  
  
"It is for you I did this, Rhos...you must understand." Aerwyn apologized. Rhos smiled sagely.  
  
"I do condemn you for it...but I think it was not all for me...but also for your niece, Aerwyn." The two women looked at one of the tiny bundles of life swaddled in the basket, and Aerwyn reached down to let the little girl grasp her finger.  
  
"Little Elin... remember this day. Today, life is good." Aerwyn smiled down at her niece, who gurgled in her baby way and smiled too.

* * *

Shout outs, because I've been bad to my reviewers lately and haven't given them their updates like they wanted.  
  
MerryMagic- glad you liked the last shout out, BECAUSE YOU GET ANOTHER ONE! _throws confetti_Nobody was expecting twins, now were they? I love being unpredictable!  
  
Orli's babe- glad you liked it! And thanks for the compliment  
  
Sailor Taichichi Vegeta- Love your comment about the hamster, and I'm glad that I'm being inspiring. I hope the show was worth the wait.  
  
Roisin Dubh- Hope you liked it...and thank you so much for continuing your support of Gray Artistries, Ltd.  
  
Dread Lady Freya- Boro and Rhos thank you for the slippers...they have full confidence in their skills.  
  
The names- Aidian-Fire, fiery, from Celtic and Eilionnoir- diminutive of Eleanor, light, from Greek. Again, I hope the show was worth the wait...and don't shoot me for letting Aerwyn in on the fun- it was Angoliel's idea to have Éowyn slack off due to her own little one. Isn't it sweet? Éowyn, expecting! _laughs_  
  
Kris- Are you all right? I hope you got your update fix.  
  
Lady of the Dog Star- Thanks for the compliment...I have to say, the last chapter was one of my favorites too.  
  
Mducquette- Thank'ee koidly for your review! And I think you're somewhere around 40 reviews now, right? I think...  
  
Terreis- I'm glad you liked it. Yeah, frazzled Boromir is pretty funny...but we love him anyway. _huggle  
_  
Angoliel- _huggleglomp_ Much thanks for your support and ideas and time and just being there, sis. 


	24. The Meaning and Mystery of the Rose

"I regret to announce that this is the end; I'm leaving now...I bid you all a very fond farewell." –Bilbo Baggins

--

After those lazy Minas Tirith summer days, so full of sounds and riots of emotion, the days breezed past without much new happening, like leaves floating down a stream in a passing autumn breeze, little tiny boats bearing another year off to the sea.

The twins grew, as children are wont, toddling through corridors and into council sessions quite by accident and mishap of maid, only to be swung up on an uncle or papa's lap and cosseted, quite content in the companionship of the company of advisors who served the king (who was often inclined to steal a twin from their father's arms when the work got boring).

Finally, word came from Fornost that work had finished, and Boromir rode north with a company of the King's Knights, clothed in the black surcoats embroidered with the White Tree that showed they served none other than Elessar Telcontar, Isildur's Heir, the Renewer, Aragorn son of Arathorn.

When the Steward of the Northland was satisfied with the progress that had been made, he sent a summons of his lady wife and their children to essay to the North and their new home without delay.

Which is what found Rhoswen, Princess of Arnor and wife of the King's steward Boromir, son of Denethor, bickering with the captain of her escort at the fork in the Greenway.

"My Lady Princess, I beg you, your husband will have my head if I do not bring you straight to Fornost! My orders were clear; escort the Lady wife of my Lord Steward via the Greenway to the newly established royal capital of Arnor at Fornost. We must not delay any longer!" the captain pleaded. Rhoswen stared him down, her riding gloved hands on her hips.

"And again I tell you, Captain, that my husband has given me instruction that I am to pass through the Shire via the Greenway, and he, along with Sir Peregrin, Sir Meriadoc, and the Councilors to the North Kingdom Samwise Gamgee and Frodo Baggins shall meet me in Hobbiton. Now please, captain...it has been a good five months since I have seen my husband, and I would not doubt his word." She laid a hand on his shoulder. "I know that this is a heavy burden, and I know you know that my husband would have you executed if his orders were disobeyed and I was lead on paths unknown and lost, to blind guides or death, but his words to me I know he would not have overlooked. Please, Captain. Send my belongings and the rest of this caravan," she gestured behind her at the train of people," and tell him that I have gone to visit Hobbiton."

The man sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Very well, my Lady Princess...At least take a few guardsmen." He beseeched again.

Rhoswen smiled. "Attend to it, then...I cannot be late." One of her grooms helped her astride her pale gray gelding, and she reined the horse about to trot smartly back to check on her children.

Lifting up the cloth shade of the wagon, Rhoswen peered inside to check on the twins, both sound asleep in the watchful arms of their nursemaid, Synne. The tall, housewifely woman who served at the children's nurse looked up and smiled.

"Aye, mi Lady Rose, they sleep like angels...haven't woken but a-once, when the road was a wee rocky, and it wasn't anything a little feeding didn't help."

Rhoswen smiled, brushing a tiny tendril of light brown hair out of her son's face with her soft dove gray glove. She blew the sleeping babes kisses, not wanting to wake them, and rode back to the front of the line.

--

The lady princess and stewardess of Arnor looked around with pride at the land that now her flesh and blood was bound to rule; the rolling hillocks and gently sloping greens of this country she loved. Now the fields were carefully tended grain, flowing over the plow furrows like a sea of liquid gold, rippling in the breeze. The odd scarecrow stuck up from the crop, not rising above her waist, and every so often a brown curly haired head peeked above the grain only to go rushing back through it.

A child (or so it seemed, this little girl couldn't have been more than a foot high) stepped out of the field in front of the caravan, and she stared up at them in wide eyed wonder, then set out running down the lane.

"The Big Folks are here!" Her little voice cried, over and over again, and Rhoswen laughed.

"So this is the Shire." Little by little, a town crept into view, beswagged with banners and little people, not higher than four feet, all decked out in their festival best.

A retainer held Rhoswen's reins as she stepped down, looking around in amazement at the small village. There was a tiny tug on her dress, and Rhoswen looked down to see a gaggle of small children, all of them bearing bundles of carefully picked flowers. She smiled, and graciously accepted them all, handing them off to Maire, who found a basket and set the flowers in it.

Rhoswen followed the path through the throng of people until she saw the four hobbits who'd invited the lady wife of the Lord Boromir. She approached them on light feet, sweeping a curtsey at the four by whose courage and fortitude good fortune and happiness had been secured for the world for a good many years to come.

"My Lady." Pippin said, proud in his uniform of the Citadel guard. Rhoswen smiled at him as he kissed her hand in the manner of the court.

"Peregrin, this is not Minas Tirith; I would have settled for a welcoming of your own people...not this grand party." Rhoswen waved a hand at the bunting and mass of hobbits in their festival best.

"If it's not to bold to say, Milady, we hobbits are very fond of parties. All we need is a reason to celebrate." Samwise put in, seeming a little nervous in the midst of this grand company.

"Well then, Master Samwise, I must say that this is a very grand party indeed."

The tall, elegant lady was led to the party field, hung with streamers and ribbons, where the tents and tables and chairs had been erected.

Rhoswen sat at her undersized chair with a true lady's grace, genteel, kind, witty and smiling, accepting the flowers and small tokens of the hobbits that showed they adored this tall, graceful woman whom their upstanding citizen-heroes had spoken of with adoring looks in their eyes.

Merry was recounting for a large audience of youngsters crowded around the Lady's skirts the monstrosity of the Cave troll in Moria when a fanfare of trumpets interrupted him mid sentence.

The crowd turned to see another brigade of knights, banners flying proudly in the breeze, attending the one who rode at their front; a tall man, proud and stern of glance, his rich robes appointed with fair embroidery as if he were a prince of men. And indeed he looked it: the other riders wore helms with the sun's ray's etched upon them, but the head of their party rode without helm or hood of any kind, his golden brown hair shining in the sun.

The horsemen stopped, their mounts' hooves raising a cloud of dust on the dirt track outside the party field, and the princely man stepped down. Pippin ran to greet him kneeling before him and then letting the man kneel so the two could embrace like brothers.

The taller man stood, and Pippin pointed over in the grove where Rhoswen sat, all the little children sitting at her skirts, and the tall man smiled, looking over the festival grounds with a half surprised and half proud eye.

Rhoswen spotted the tall princely man, and extricating herself from the small mass of children after Merry had begun his tale anew, went to greet her husband, kissing his cheek chastely. There would be time enough for indecency later.

Boromir embraced his wife, savoring the smell of her hair, faint of the rosemary and lavender she washed it with. "I have missed you, my White Rose." He whispered in her ear. They broke apart, and Rhoswen looked up at him.

"I have missed you also, beloved. Come, Merry is telling the children the story of the Moria cave troll." She led the tall Steward of Arnor through the crowd, a few hobbit lasses curtseying as they passed.

When they reached the storyteller and his captivated audience, Merry looked up. "Children, this is Lord Boromir. He went with Frodo and Sam and Pippin and I on the Quest."

The children ohhed and ahhed, and Boromir was made to sit down a little clumsily amidst the group of little ones and tell his part of the story, to his great amusement and their great wonder. One little lad climbed on his lap, and he held the child there in his great arms until the story had finished, returning the wayward little boy to his mother.

Rhoswen watched the proceedings with a smile, occasionally looking down at the basket next to her with a special smile. Boromir rose from the group listening to the knight of the Riddermark and went to sit next to his wife, inspecting the basket's contents with care.

"How did they fare on the ride here?" he asked, his eyes fretful for the welfare of his children.

"I could not have asked for two more patient and silent traveling companions. They slept most of the trip today." Rhoswen said with a smile, one of her fingers tracing the tiny hand of Eilinnoir. The little girl stirred in her sleep, grasping the finger of her mother with that inner child strength, surprising for one so small, holding on to that finger as if life depended on it.

"I can feel it in her hands...she would make a good shield maid." Rhoswen said with a smile, letting Boromir's finger replace hers. Her husband smiled.

"You are right. But I think she would be a scholar first. She shall ask often of me, and every other who knows them, the tales of this age, and delight in them, like Faramir. I can feel it." He looked at his son, the thin curls of dark blonde hair covering his head making him look like an angel. "I think this one will take after me." He said with a smile. Rhoswen laughed softly and drew the small coverlets around their chins gently, picking up the basket and taking it back to the wagon it had traveled in these many miles.

Boromir turned back to the party, the lively makings of music and the smell of food drifting through the air. Pippin came up, a plate laden with food in one hand and two tankards in the other, one sufficiently bigger than the other. He pushed the bigger of the two at Boromir.

"High nose all you like about the wine of Minas Tirith, but the Green Dragon's ale is second to none." They clanked the tankards together and drank up.

Boromir smiled at the taste. "I concede, Master Pippin. This is by far superior. Although Rohan's brings a close second."

Pippin smiled over his tankard rim. "Aye, that it does."

As the evening wore on and hobbit bellies were filled, more and more of the old folk clamored for a speech from their guests. Boromir rose obligingly after much haranguing from his tablemates and looked over the assembly.

"As your fine squires may have told you, the King has returned anew to my homeland, Gondor, far to the south of here. In the days of yore Men once ruled these lands, and so it shall be once more. The King, Aragorn, has granted me stewardship here, to watch these lands and protect his loyal subjects in them. I make known and attest now that the borders of the Shire shall not be open to wayward folk, and the hobbits who live there may keep their peace in anyway as they see fit, free from intrusion by the Big Folk." Boromir finished with a smile to many loud cheers.

Boromir and his wife bid their hosts goodbye, mounting up and riding down the East Road to Bree, where they would spend the night.

* * *

Boromir gently snuffed out the candle, covering the flame with his hand and blowing it out, setting the lazily smoking light on the table and climbing into bed. It was a little warm from Rhoswen's body, and Boromir lay down next to her, sharing his body heat as well. The night was chill, and the down comforter was a little thin. Rhoswen murmured contentedly and pressed herself closer, finding one of Boromir's hands and wrapping it around her.

What would he do without this woman? It seemed so right to have her there, in the crook of his body...why would he ever have not wanted this? Boromir mused as his mind drifted off into dreams.

* * *

Rhoswen woke up to find her bed empty; the large, warm, comforting presence of her husband next to her was not there. She turned over, and sat up in bed, looking around.

"Boromir? Boromir?"

There was a rapping at her window, and Rhoswen threw open the shutters and looked down into the courtyard. Boromir was standing there, an ever-playful grin on his face and a pile of small rocks in one hand and a bouquet of roses in the other.

"Sweet slugabed! The flowers have already shed their dew and yet you are still not dressed! They will wait if I command them so, but we have many miles to travel ere we reach our new home, and if you delay me another hour, it shall be dark!" Boromir said with a mock frown. Rhoswen rolled her eyes.

"You could have woken me, my lord!" she declaimed through the open window. Boromir's smile widened.

"I could not disturb one so fair whilst she slept, my lady. In the dawn light you looked to be an angel." He said, smiling like a love-lorn fool. Rhoswen rolled her eyes and shut the windows again, and finding the dress Maire had pulled from the trunks for her to wear.

A half an hour later, Rhoswen breezed into the courtyard, her hair neatly caught up in a net of pearls, and a strand of sapphires at her throat. Boromir kissed his wife and handed her the flowers.

"You look a goddess of the sea, my Rose. To remind your people it was from the foam you were born and brought to me, a finer prize for no other man but the Steward's son?"

Rhoswen smiled a little. "I am no prize, husband...and there were far fairer women then I who could have had you. A conspiracy of fathers did us in."

"You act as if it were a thing you regret." Boromir added with a smile. "And in my eyes, there is none so fair as you."

"Such is being in love, your lordship. Now, let us away-a little bird knocked on my window and told me we must not delay." Rhoswen said, her smile now playful. Boromir picked her up easily and set her on her horse, much to her surprise and hidden delight.

"We must not disappoint the little bird then."

* * *

The sun was now below the horizon, and the halflight of dusk filled the sky. Boromir looked at the half sleeping form of his wife on her horse next to her. He leaned over to whisper in her ear.

"Rhoswen...we are home."

The young woman sat up, blinking her eyes, and her breath was momentarily taken away as they rode through the gates.

"Oh Boromir...it is beautiful." She whispered, her eyes trying to take in all of it at once.

"It is not the White City, but it is ours." Boromir said with a note of pride.

"I shall love it as if it were the White City." Rhoswen said, the troupe of riders clattering through the dark byways on their way to the stables.

Rhoswen stifled an un-ladylike yawn as they reached the front doors, handing her horse to a retainer. Once her husband had dismounted he picked her up easily and carried her inside, up the stairs and down the halls to their bedchamber, laying her down on their marriage bed, carefully taking off her riding clothes and tucking her under the soft sheets in her chemise as if she were a small child.

Boromir smiled as he looked at his sleeping wife and went to prepare for bed himself, careful not to disturb Rhoswen's untroubled angelic sleep.

* * *

This morning it was Boromir who was going to sleep in, Rhoswen decided as she carefully did up the small clasps of her dress, her husband still sleeping like a bear. She blew a kiss and then shut the door behind her, going off to explore her new home.

* * *

Boromir woke up with a yawn; he knew Rhos would have let him sleep had she gotten up before him. She'd probably gone to explore the castle, and Boromir thought he knew where he might find her.

The air was filled with floating leaves and a gentle stillness in the garden, and Boromir again recalled an angel as his wife walked the paths of the large plot of flowers, some of them still in their late summer riot of bloom and color. The sun set a silver sheen on her hair, and she glowed in the morning light.

"_He saw her in the garden, as she strayed_

_Among the flowers of summer with her maid..."_

Gently cutting off one of the deep red roses with the dagger at his waist, he tapped her shoulder and bowed, presenting her the flower. Rhoswen took the blossom, holding it to her nose and sniffing it lightly.

"Boromir...What would you say the meaning and mystery of the rose is?" she asked thoughtfully, studying the blossom.

_"And said to him, "O Eginhard, disclose  
The meaning and the mystery of the rose";_

The Steward of the Northland pondered this for a moment, looking at the tender flower in his wife's white fingers, and then up at her face.

"To me, a rose means....love. When I look at you, that is all I see-love. When I see you, Rhos, there is a fixation in my heart I cannot understand, cannot hope to understand, cannot fully explain, even. I can only say that this...feeling is to say that if you ever left me, ever died because of my stupidity or lack of foresight, I should never forgive myself.

"You mean love to me, Rhoswen, and I should never want to lose such a precious gift-in truth, if I ever did lose your heart-gods forbid it should ever come to that-I would rather like to lose myself with it, for what is life without love?" He took the rose from her fingers, and studied it fixatedly. "And youth...since you have come to me, a chosen bride who did not want to wed a man old enough to be her father, I have found in myself-indeed, I think it is you who have awakened it- some deep seated passion from my youth, and there no longer lies a barrier of age between us, because you are older in mind, and I am younger in spirit."

Rhoswen looked at her husband; her eyes were sad. "Never would I leave you, Boromir. Love is too precious a thing to be wasted."

_And trembling he made answer: "In good sooth,  
Its mystery is love, its meaning youth!"_

Boromir smiled widely, holding her at an arms length to look her over again-his wife, all his...

"I see you are wearing my Yule present." Boromir said after a little time, trying to break the porcelain silence. Rhoswen looked down at her cloak and laughed.

"Master Peregrin said that you still wore my stone when you two parted ways." The Princess of Arnor said, looking back to darker days.

"I shall have to thank Pippin-his memory serves him well. I did indeed, dearest Rhoswen." Boromir reassured her, holding her hand tightly and walking over to the nearest bench to draw from the purse at his belt a small package wrapped in soft buttery buckskin, opening it in her lap to reveal two necklaces, one a simple chain on which hung the finely cut white stone Rhos had given him before he left for Imaladris, and the other a circular pendant with the delicate curls of an Elvish craftsman filling the circle to cradle a green stone at it's center.

Rhoswen drew the circular pendant from the bundle curiously, holding it against her fingers to examine it.

"Who gave you this?" she asked quietly, sensing another story.

"The last member of our company of nine-Gabrielin of the Greenwood." Rhoswen opened her mouth to ask where she had gone, why she had never been introduced, but Boromir pressed a finger to her lips, and the questions died in her silence. He sighed sadly.

"She died to save me on Amon Hen-this was her gift to you, to tell you that love is worth dying for. Her bow I have also-I shall save it for Eilionnoir, when she is old enough to test the string." Boromir finished with a small smile. Rhoswen returned his hopeful gaze, and then looked down at the pendant in her hands.

"I owe this woman so much, and I have never met her....My husband...my children...Tell me of her, Boromir-tell me of your journey, and how she came to die. I feel I should know her, somehow-tell me of her." Rhoswen's eyes pleaded with him, and so Boromir eased himself back on the bench, and told his wife of the many dangers they had faced, of the darkness of Moria and the light of Lórien, and the lady Galadriel whom Rhoswen had seen in the wedding company of Arwen Evenstar, and then the shame of his country when he had so foolishly tried to take the ring from it's bearer, and how Gabrielin had died.

When he had finished, Rhoswen averted her eyes from his to look back down at the necklace, as if it would show the face of her savior.

"This she-elf...this Gabrielin. I met her in a dream." Rhos said, after careful thought. "I did not know 'twas she, for she knew my face, but I knew not hers. Hearing of her, I know now I cannot be mistaken. She showed me a blackened city...a sad people...a mighty king. And..." Rhoswen's breath shook. "She showed me the gardens of Minas Tirith. In the courtyard of one, there stood a statue, and at its base was a child..."

She turned her face away, and Boromir knew she was hiding her tears. "It was your son, Boromir...and the statue was a memorial. You had died." She finished simply, turning and burying her head in his chest. Boromir held her close, stroking her hair.

"That is the other path, Rose...that is what should have been." He said simply, her head heavy and warm on his chest.

There was the sound of laughter from the farther reaches of the garden, and Boromir and his wife looked up to see their twins, tottering along the stone path with their nurse. They stopped to play in the dappled sunshine under the leaves of a fruit tree, and it seemed, in the strange light, that another woman sat there, robed in white and arrayed in sunlight, smiling and laughing with the children. She turned her face towards Boromir, and smiled broadly.

"You've done well, my friend." A breeze whispered in his ear. Boromir blinked, and the vision was gone. He watched Rhoswen go to their children, kissing the small face of their son, and then their daughter, her once sad face full of laughter and happiness.

"Thank you, Gabrielin." He whispered to the wind.

The breeze seemed to laugh.

* * *

For nothing this wide universe I call,

Save thou, my rose; in it thou art my all. –W. Shakespeare, Sonnet LIV

* * *

_bows _Thank you all for reading this-it means the greatest to me. I hope you have enjoyed the end, and if you wish, I may write a sequel. You will, of course, if you desire this, tell me what you wish to see in said sequel.

And...for the last time, my shout outs.

The newbies-

Ciel- Undomiel: Thanks, I'm glad you're speechless. And I'm very glad you think it's checks notes "REALLY REALLY REALLY good". It's reviews like that that just make my day.

Kitsume: Glad you liked it-hope you get this far.

And the regulars-I love you from the bottom of my fan fic writing heart, all of you!

Roisin Dubh: thanks for all the carefully thought out critiques, and the suggestions, and all those little corrections you helped so much with. I love you lots!

Unfortunately, no foreshadowing for Boromir and taking a mistress...good idea though. I've got some foreshadowing in this chapter though, if you want that sequel...

Angoliel: I don't have to tell you this-I adore you, you great big sister ball of awesomeness, you.

Dread Lady Freya: thanks for all the wonderful laughs, friend. I loved every one of them. Loved all your quirky comments, your jokes...everything.

Answer to your question-no, it can't grow back, but it does hurt the first several times, and there may be blood. Of course, some women are born without them, or it's already broken due to riding a horse a lot. shrug dunno if I sent you a memo on that one.

Shallindra: Oh, my! I'm so glad! Boromir will be pleased to hear he has another fan.

Mducquette: Thanks for letting me be a part of your writing-I loved every minute of it, and I hope you send me something when your book is published.

Oh goodness, you think I'm a genius? I don't know about that one...

Terries- thanks for everything-thanks for letting me in on some of your story, thanks for letting me stick in my two cents and help, and thanks for all the awesome feedback and the laughs-it's been fun.

The secret to my R chapter- I'm not married, have no boyfriend, and have no romance in my life whatsoever...sigh so...yeah. I'm sorry if it offended.

So tell me, all you crazy, wonderful, wacky people...

Did my fic make you laugh?

Did my fic make you cry?

Do you want any more?

Shall you spit in my eye?

The author shuffles her papers, gets off her stool, bows, and the spot light goes out, waiting for the final applause


End file.
